SISTER WOLF
by kydasam
Summary: PRESLASH VHCContinuation of Brother Wolf. Van Helsing and Carl set out to find the village of werewolves and answers about the werewolf taint they carry in their own blood. Rated M for adult situations.
1. Chapter 1

Rating: PG13

Pairing: Carl/Gabriel, the beginnings of a slash relationship

Series/Sequel: The continuation of **Brother Wolf**

**Notes:**

Warning: Aspersions against the Church of Van Helsing's time (which I feel are merited), the ongoing relationship of Gabriel and Carl that with togetherness, deepens.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play

**Feedback**: _Many thanks to the readers and reviewers of Brother Wolf. It appears you liked the story, hence this continuation. I hope that you enjoy this addition to the story equally well. To reviewers **Twilight The Umbreon, Moonlup, Illudrae, MagRowan, JustinetheBean02, .xiXmoonofdespairXix., milady dragon, and Seadragon68** I give especial thanks for letting me know you liked the story and especially for your questions and observations! As MagRowan says, this story is going to explore the possibility (probability?) that once bitten, always a werewolf._

_To **Chibi-Kaz**, my much honored and often put-upon Beta, thank you so much for sticking with me and answering all my questions._

Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

**SISTER WOLF 1**

_Night time clung to the deep woods about the inn; its ebony caress of the mossy trees and the deep wet foliage beneath gave strength to the shadows that poured over the ground with furred ears laid back and golden eyes gleaming. They carried the darkness of the woods with them, emerging from its cover reluctantly, they stayed low to the ground until they reached the wooden side of the building. As one, they lifted their muzzles to the sky and the dark window on the side of the inn, where a curtain fluttered outward on the breeze. Drawing in deep breaths, their softly furred lips fluttered in snarls and small whining noises. _

_Alpha's eyes closed as her red tongue flickered out, tapping her lips and nose to drink in the scent. As if drawn, she rose to her hind legs, stretching up to her full height against the building, her long dark claws dug hard into the wood, tearing away long jagged splinters. Beside her, another large female, Beta, whined, then snarled, snapping at a male who jostled her. He withdrew slightly, crouching down, but watched both females with eager interest. _

_Abruptly, Alpha leapt up, her hind claws caught and dug into the wood, holding her suspended on the vertical plain. She licked her lips as she reached upward, sinking the claws of first one long-fingered hand and then the other into the structure before releasing a hind foot to move it higher up. Her muscles rippled beneath her pale coat as she began to climb the side of the inn, her eyes remained fixed upon the open window above. She heard and felt the others begin to climb beneath her. Such climbing was rare to them, but when there was sufficient provocation, they could manage it. _

_She was drawing close to the window; the scent was much stronger; coarse hairs in the ruff about her shoulders rose as did a long spike of fur along her backbone. The gold of her eyes was hidden beneath fully dilated pupils; her muzzle was open in a grimace of pleasure. She reached for the sill with one hand, long fingers curling about the wood silently. He was asleep, she could smell the muzzy velvet scent of his dreams and she panted for breath. _

_Like dark water, she flowed over the sill to the floor below and slunk toward the bed. Behind her, the others entered as well, moving about the bed until they surrounded it. She rose then, to two legs, as she canted her head, and watched him breath, watched the small frown that appeared between his dark brows. He slept upon his back, covered by a thin blanket; carefully, she caught the edge of the blanket and pulled it back slowly, licking her lips wetly as his body was revealed inch by inch. _

_Beta took the blanket when it reached his feet and dropped it to the floor. Alpha leaned over the man before her and closed her eyes as she drew his scent deep into her lungs. She could feel the surge of excitement burn her with an almost physical pain; she'd waited so long. So had he, she could smell it on him. _

_The others moved closer, ready as her long red tongue lapped out to stroke wetly over his throat. _

_His eyes opened immediately, widening hugely as he saw the ring of werewolves about his bed. His mouth opened and she covered it with her hand. She could feel his snarl of anger as his eyes flared brilliantly gold_ _. Her eyes dropped down, sliding over his body like silk and she felt his anger spike as the black wolf buried within him awoke. It was buried too deeply, it could not or would not surface, but its bestial fury boosted his own. _

_The other wolves moved in, seizing his limbs as he began to fight and bound him with strips torn from the bed's sheets. When he was secure, they lifted his writhing thrashing body from the bed to carry it to the window. She kept her hand tight over his mouth, muffling his sounds of anger, confusion and uncertainty. He was helpless and he raled at his state even as she exulted in it. As they maneuvered him through the window, Beta was there to take him, her hand covering his mouth as Alpha's had. Soon, they would have him in the forest, where they would have all the time in the world to set the wolf within him free. _

* * *

Van Helsing bolted upright and gasped for breath as his wide eyes flew about the room expecting to see the ring of wolves only to find he was alone. It had been a dream, a nightmare. 

The hunter closed his eyes as he rubbed one hand over his sweaty face, scrubbing hard at his eye sockets until they stung. It had been so real, he'd known what the alpha wolf was thinking, feeling….

Thrusting up from the bed, he grimaced at the clammy feel of cold sweat beading his skin. He wanted to wash it away, but first…he had to check, the dream had been too real for him to dismiss it easily.

Moving across the floor, he approached the window warily; the sill showed no claw marks. Bracing himself even as he growled at his cowardice, he pushed the dingy white curtain aside and looked out over the ground and the side of the inn below his window. As expected, there was nothing to substantiate his dream. The night was drawing to an end, he could feel the pre-dawn chill on the moist air. Drawing back inside, he rubbed his hands over his arms.

His plans for a wash were forgotten as he stood before the window in the darkened room watching the sunlight creep over the horizon, sundering the last shadows of evening. He could feel the reticence of the shadows now; it didn't take any concentration on his part to sense the hold the nighttime had on the earth and how reluctantly it was yielded in the deep forest. Within his own heart he felt the change from night to day keenly; a small growl rumbled in his chest and his upper lip flickered over white teeth before settling. Blinking, he turned away from the wooded vista with a frown. He was changing, whether the wolf within him was able to emerge or not it colored everything he thought and felt. He didn't like the feeling of always being watched by that silent waiting presence.

Moving back to the bed, he sat down upon the rumpled linens; a misshapen lump of candle wax and a small can of matches drew his attention and he felt a sense of shame even as he scratched a match to flame and lit the candle. He felt exhaustion in his bones, but the idea of attempting to return to sleep and its attendant terrors made his heart speed up and his hackles rise. It was with a nod to compromise that he redressed in his borrowed trousers, then lay down upon the bed, on top of the covers, and watched the shadows cast upon the ceiling by the swaying tree branches outside.

As his thoughts circled and turned upon themselves, his fingers idly stroked his chest and swirled through the warm hair. His thoughts returned to Transylvania and the feeling of naked vulnerability in the first few nights following his return from the wolf state to humanity. His body remembered the power of the wolf's form and his mind yearned for the freedom in the wolf's simplicity. There were no feelings of inadequacy or guilt in the wolf's mind. He existed in the here and now and felt completely at peace with his nature. The devastating sadness came later, as the antidote forced his human and wolfish natures to recognize they had both lost something infinitely precious. The wolf acknowledged, then, the loss of his mate as Van Helsing had done the same. Human and wolf had merged and shared their grief.

Perhaps that merging, brief as it was, had been so profound that it now accounted for his retaining the wolf, even after the antidote. The antidote could help him contain the wolf, but how could it ever take away the memory of it? It couldn't purge the feeling of freedom so strong it had been a joy. His humanity, like a joint that has been injured, would always be a little shaky. Between the inner desire to return to the wolf and the outer weakening of his body's self image, he suspected only his unrelenting fight against the change kept him human.

Such thoughts, realized in the dark of night, weren't exactly the stuff of happy bedtime stories. No wonder he had nightmares.

With a grunt, he rose from the bed, pausing to pinch out the candle flame before moving to the wash stand. Filling the basin with water, he growled and cursed his way through a very chilly sponge bath that left him with sopping hair and standing puddles on the floor. Without thinking, he shook his head vigorously, spraying droplets in every direction. When he realized what he'd done, he rolled his eyes before reaching for the towel. This mission was going to be difficult on a number of levels if he had to watch his every movement for inappropriate wolfish tendancies. FHe wished with his whole heart that he'd never heard of the circus or Charles.

Dropping the now-damp towel over the water pitcher, the hunter turned his attention to the task of dressing. There wasn't much left to do—he and Carl had only their salvaged pants and tunics. Ruefully, he considered his bare feet but no alternative came to mind. With a shrug and a mental promise to rectify the problem as soon as possible, he padded through the standing puddles to the chamber door.

The hallway was quiet—he found himself wondering how much custom the inn actually got, considering its isolated situation. That thought in turn urged another reluctant realization into place. What kind of custom could the innkeeper expect, except werewolves? He couldn't be unaware of them, but he wasn't one of them either. What was their relationship?

Carl's door yielded quietly to his touch on the latch and he let himself into the dim chamber. It was very dark in the windowless room, but he didn't need the light to be able to tell Carl was still asleep. The friar's wheezing snores announced the man had no difficulties with his own recent return from the wolfish state. That in itself raised yet more questions to Van Helsing's mind which he quashed with an irritated huff. He was spending too much time of late in his own head, a problem he didn't recall having until he started spending time with the ever-curious friar.

By memory, he moved deeper into Carl's room, feeling about for the squat wash stand that served as the bedside table. The floor felt scratchy and rough beneath his feet, he had to walk carefully lest he pick up a splinter as he felt his way. When he found the stand, his fingers ghosted over the pitcher of water to the wash bowl and then finally the cool greasy lump of candle wax that served as the room's lighting with a box of lucifers beside it. At the scratch of the match, the friar started and grumbled. As the light grew bright, his grumbles became sulky mutterings as he kicked at the bedclothes and hugged his pillow to his face.

"Carl, wake up."

"Gmngh y."

"Carl." A smile plucked at the hunter's lips as he gingerly shook the friar's shoulders, and then fell back as his peaceful friar swiped at him.

"_Grumph y_!"

"Alright, Carl…have it your way. I am sorry to have to do this…" the hunter said with mock resignation as he lifted the pitcher of wash water, hefting it with a thoughtful expression. Then, with a rueful 'tsk', and while standing well back, he began to pour a steady stream onto the friar's head.

"Mmmph…mph…ack…gu…Agh!" Carl bolted upright in his bed, swiping at his soggy hair and then the pitcher. "(_hack hack)_ W…what are you trying to do? Drown me!"

"Good morning, princess," the hunter smirked as he returned the pitcher to its stand.

"My God, you're evil," Carl growled, then shook his head hard, showering everything in a five-foot range with water. Dashing droplets from his face with his palms, Carl barely had time to register the towel the hunter tossed at him before it hit him in the face and wrapped about his head.

"Rise and shine, Carl. Finish washing and meet me downstairs."

Van Helsing didn't bother to wait to hear what his friend's reply would be. He'd woken Carl often enough to know that his friend was capable of some naïve but deeply felt cursing when he was moved to it. The friar and dawn were not on speaking terms in the best of circumstances and, barring a miracle, he wouldn't be on speaking terms with Van Helsing until after breakfast.

The dining/main room of the inn was as empty as it had been the previous night. His original conclusions about the slow custom of the place appeared to be entirely accurate. With its dark wood walls and dark grimy flagstones, the place exuded all the charm of a dank cave. As the entire room was available for selection, he chose a table that was set well away from the door, where he could sit with his back to the now-cold hearth.

Judging by the innkeeper's surly reluctance to wait upon his customer, however, one would have supposed he could well do without even the small custom that did come his way. Walking with an insolent slouch, he took his time bringing a tray of food to the table; after banging down the plates upon the splinter-infested surface, he extracted tarnished cutlery from his apron's pockets, which he made a show of polishing against this apron before dropping them in a jumble upon the tabletop. Without a word, he turned and slouched away, back to his bar where he reimersed himself in daily chores, the benefit of which apparently only he knew.

Breakfast proved to be an inedible cut of meat so tough that only dedicated sawing could induce it to tear. Around the slab of meat were arranged three runny eggs that gently sloshed from side to side with the barest movement of the plate. Swallowing roughly, Van Helsing dropped his cutlery upon the table and pushed the plate away. He suspected that the lack of custom at the inn was likely due to the owner having poisoned anyone foolhardy enough to try his cooking.

A commotion from the stairwell announced Carl's arrival among the living and Van Helsing settled back in his squeaking chair and folded his arms. He could hear Carl's mumbling grumbles and smiled—there was something comforting in the fact he could always count upon Carl's nature to remain the same, no matter what.

"My God, it's barely light," the friar whined as he settled into his chair with a thud. "Why is it necessary to rise at the first sign of dawn? Would some horrible evil befall us if, just once, we rose at a decent hour?"

"We have a long way to go today, it doesn't make sense to put it off and then be caught by darkness when we're least prepared."

"Darkness!" Carl squeaked and waved a hand at the inn's dirty windows. "It's _dawn_! The only darkness we're going to see, except behind our own drooping eyelids, is over twelve hours away! I assure you, Van Helsing, I'll give out long before that God awful sun does!"

The hunter merely smiled as he used one hand to slide his plate toward the friar. "I know you, Carl. Your idea of a good start is at noon."

"And? ... What is _that_?" The friar's petulant return was cut short as his nose twitched over the plate Van Helsing shoved beneath it. "Thank God, at least we aren't going to starve," he muttered and set to with a vengeance.

The hunter watched with a sense of nauseous awe as the friar hacked away a portion of meat, dragged it through the eggs until it was well coated, and then shoved the dripping morsel into his mouth. With a loud groan of appreciation, the friar's eyes closed as he savored the tough mouthful as if it were the finest steak from the best restaurant.

"_Mmmm_," Carl purred, shimmying in his chair as a beatific smile curved his lips.

A shuffling step announced the return of their host, who approached the table with another plate of inedible food. When he saw the friar tucking into the first plate, he hesitated; without breaking the rhythm of his chewing, Carl reached out and took the plate from his hand and settled it on the table before him. The innkeeper shook his head at the friar's obvious appreciation of his culinary skills; it was doubtful he had ever received such accolades before and highly doubtful he ever would again. With a snort, he turned away with an shrug.

Carl stirred himself from his gustatory appreciation to looked up as the man began to leave, calling out, "Oh, and tea please! Sugar _and_ cream, mind!"

Though the innkeeper's back was to them, Van Helsing could well imagine the man's long-suffering expression as his back stiffened with the call and then slumped as he went off in search of the friar's tea. Carl didn't notice however; he was industriously plying both fork and knife in a renewed, all-out attack upon the leathery meat.

"Carl, slow down—that meat's been dead for a good long time. It's not going to escape if you take the time to swallow."

"Mmm! Everything 's so gooood," Carl moaned as he pushed another piece into his already full mouth.

"I've never seen you get so much enjoyment from a meal."

The friar blinked at him as a thoughtful expression displaced his previous bliss. Van Helsing noted with interest that the chewing motions grew slower and slower as the friar's thought processes took control of his attention. When the chewing stopped altogether, the hunter moved in for the kill.

"The lycanthropy rears its ugly head again?" he suggested and Carl nodded slowly.

"The enjoyment of eating is, of course, a human trait, but it wouldn't be unreasonable to suppose wolves and werewolves derive a whole different sort of enjoyment from it."

"Ah. That's yes, then," the hunter hazarded.

Swallowing with difficulty, Carl laid down his utensils as he ruefully wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Yes, that would be a definite yes. The problem is we need more information. I know almost all there is to know about the normal lone werewolf, such as Dracula created, but apparently almost nothing about what it means to _be_ a werewolf within a society of them. You know….I've been considering Vermin's story about the witch who gave Charles the herbs…."

Van Helsing leaned forward onto the table, his eyes narrowing slightly as he nodded. "I've been wondering about that myself. Doesn't sound likely that the werewolves would infect Devon and then set him up to be captured by Charles, does it?"

"It would actually make more sense if Charles were lying. That he never really went back to the werewolf village. We know that he felt very little for the boy…would he really go back through the dark woods in search of this village by himself to rescue a son he obviously didn't care about?"

Van Helsing sighed as he rubbed his hands over his face. He had faced a great many ugly and evil things in his line of work, but this particular mission was fast becoming one of the worst. "I don't know, Carl. Maybe he started out believing he would find Devon…. Vermin said he found a witch…one knowledgeable about werewolves. I'm willing to bet she wasn't one of our werewolves. Our host might know something about her."

"Speaking of which," Carl murmured as he caught sight of their host approaching with another tray.

The innkeeper's demeanor was as unprepossessing this time as it had been before. Carl smiled as his tea was delivered in a pottery cup that was crazed with so many cracks it was a wonder the liquid within didn't geyser out from all sides. "It smells wonderful," the friar observed as he carefully eased the cup to his mouth, cradling it gingerly with both hands. "Thank you so much…ah, we were wondering, actually, if you could supply us with a little information?"

"Mph," the man grunted, his scowl getting, if possible, even darker. "What kind of information?"

Carl's delicately worded reply was overridden by Van Helsing's baritone.

"Witches," the hunter said shortly, noting their host's scowl slipping into a shifty cautious mien. "One witch in particular—she knows about werewolves."

"Werewolves…" the innkeeper growled as he backed away, his eyes shifting from one man to another. "What do you want with them?"

Easily, the hunter snagged the man's apron, drawing his reluctant host back to the table. "We want to avoid them, as much as you. This witch…she knows how to do that, doesn't she?"

The innkeeper's eyes darted about the room as if he were afraid of being overheard; Carl watched with queasy fascination as the dirty stubbled skin of the man's throat jerked spasmodically as he swallowed several times in succession.

"Is there something wrong?" Carl hazarded, and then jumped as the innkeeper abruptly seized his shoulder in a hard firm grip. Van Helsing immediately caught the other man's wrist, his long fingers squeezing shut until the innkeeper winced and whimpered and let go of the friar.

"Just answer his question," Van Helsing advised their host. "No harm will come to you from us."

"It's not you I'm worried about!" the innkeeper snapped. Immediately, he bit his lip; his voice lowering as he pulled a nearby chair to the table and sank into it. Leaning over the table, he met the two men's eyes. "It doesn't do to advertise too much interest in werewolves," he advised them grimly. "By day, they're men, like you and me. They could be anyone. They remember who's been showing too much interest in them and they deal with it. I'm here alone much of the time, I don't want a pack of them howling at my door one night."

"Nono, of course not," Carl soothed, gingerly patting them innkeeper's greasy sleeve. "But we aren't werewolves, I assure you of that."

"I know," the innkeeper said, a trace of smugness in his voice. "A werewolf's got hairy skin and misshapen bones, you can feel it under the clothes. That's why I grabbed you like that."

"Oh! Well, actually…." Carl began, only to yelp as Van Helsing kicked his shin.

"Sorry," the hunter apologized with a shrug for the friar before turning his attention to their host. "So you know that we're not werewolves now. You'll tell us about this witch?"

"Aye, I'll tell you. Her name is Sarah. She lives in the village a short piece to the north, through the woods. The village is called Wellys."

"A village? Er..we heard there's a village nearby, but it's supposed to be populated by werewolves…."

The innkeeper shook his head firmly, dismissing the friar's worries out of hand. "Nay nay! Wellys' full of normal people, like you and me. Sarah keeps it so. She knows all about those hairy devils and how to keep them away."

"Alright, we'll go see her, then," Van Helsing assured him firmly.

"Just one question," Carl hastened to add, "if you're so afraid of werewolves, why did you plant your inn the middle of the wood?"

Snorting, the innkeeper shook his head again. "It's plain you don't know much about this area," he grunted. This inn used to be on a good trade route--with the town Keely to the south—you passed through it, right? It's decent sized, with a monastery on its north edge? Not much in the way of other amusements, but it's a good jump-off point..."

"We passed through it," Van Helsing interrupted the innkeeper's rambling travelogue.

"Hmph. Well, the long and short of it is things change. There's Keely, then you enter the forest and come to this inn. Further north is Wellys, and about a day's journey beyond Wellys was a large, well-established town who specialized in hard-to-find trade items. It stood for over a hundred years and traffic to and fro was steady enough. Then the problems with the werewolves started and over time business began to stay away. No business—no income---no village. Now visitors are rare; no one is going to come through the forest just to visit Wellys, why would they? When the trade dried up so did my custom."

"Ah," Carl gurgled, his eyes had the distinctly glassy look of a man who has just been forcefed a surfeit of information.

With one eyebrow raised, Van Helsing shifted in his chair and redirected his attention to their host. "If Sarah knows how to keep the werewolves at bay, why are you so afraid of them?"

The innkeeper frowned at that, shrugging as he scratched his head. "Aye...well, it's the light of day you need to watch for them the hardest, isn't it? I mean they're not wolves any longer, so any charm that would keep the wolf at bay like as not doesn't work on the man he becomes."

"Oh." Carl roused, blinking as he considered the sense of that, then opened his mouth to reply only to yelp as Van Helsing kicked him again. "Ow ow **_ow_**! You'll lame me if this keeps up!"

"Probably be a good idea if we get going then, that way we can avoid any more mishaps," the hunter growled at his friend.

Grumbling beneath his breath, Carl got to his feet and limped back from the table. He kept a sharp eye on the hunter as he rubbed his shin. "So, we're going to Wellys?"

"We're going to Wellys," the hunter affirmed. "While we're there, we can get some new clothing and hopefully a pair of horses."

"You can rent some horses from me, for cash," the innkeeper interjected, his surly demeanor lightening with the prospect of his guests' departure and the chance of some easy money thrown in. With a canny look beneath the table, he sniffed. "I might also be able to sell you some boots. Not new, but you don't look like you'd be inclined to be too particular. When would you want them?"

"Immediately," Van Helsing said firmly, ignoring the other man's smirk of greedy pleasure as he rose to his feet. "We'll take the boots and the horses and leave immediately."

Carl sighed as he drained his cup of weak tea with no sugar and the barest taste of thin milk, and set it down upon the table beside his still-full plate. Pushing back from the table, he winced as he hobbled toward the exit with Van Helsing following in his wake. "Wonderful. Nothing like a short jaunt through werewolf-infested woods with an empty stomach and a broken leg. If we're set upon, just leave me behind, I'll be done for any way."

* * *

Carl groaned as he squirmed upon his saddle and for the hundredth time wished for his missing clothing. He missed his familiar robes and the lovely long underwear he wore beneath it. He missed his sturdy boots that fitted him perfectly and the warm thick socks he wore with them. But perhaps most of all, he missed the hood of his robe. 

Flapping his arms, Carl swatted away the latest accumulation of leaves and twigs that had fallen from the canopy to plaster themselves to his unwilling frame. He noticed that the hunter never seemed to be bothered by such things. It was almost as though the slings and arrows that plagued the lives of others decided to make a complete bypass of the hunter. It hardly seemed fair.

Riding slightly ahead, Van Helsing listened to the friar's huffs and snorts with a smile upon his lips. With so many concerns preying upon his mind, it was a relief to occasionally let it all go in favor of ruffling the friar's feathers just a little more.

"Only a little ways further, Carl; perhaps another hour or so," he observed with good humor, his smile turning into a full-fledged grin at the friar's spluttering huff.

"Lovely," Carl muttered, then, more loudly, "I would be willing to swear that the birds in these trees follow us. They've tracked us from the first clearing to the inn, and now they're following us to the village."

"Why would they do that?"

"I'm sure I don't know," the friar growled, squinting up through his bangs to the trees above. "I daren't look up to actually _check_, because as soon as I do, one of the little demons will loose a load of lime right into my eye. As it is, they seem to take delight in dropping all manners of rubbish on me! I've got enough kindling down my back to start a small fire!"

"Hmph. Hang onto it, it'll save you the trouble of gathering more later."

"Hah hah! We haven't even begun to address the quantities of caterpillars and beetles that have found a new home in my hair! Ugh!"

Closing his eyes briefly as he schooled himself to an expression of sober commiseration, the hunter reined back his horse until he rode beside Carl. His hazel eyes took in the flustered friar's petulant pout, the leaves sticking to his shirt and trousers and the twigs that poked up from the top of his head like miniature antlers.

"You're right, Carl. They do seem to be aiming for you. But since I don't have my pistols or crossbow, you'll just have to make the best of it."

With the hunter's words, Carl abruptly smacked himself in the forehead, hard enough to make Van Helsing wince.

"More bugs?" he hazarded with sympathy as the friar weaved slightly in his saddle.

"Nonono! I just remembered…your coat, and your weapons….when I knocked Nikko out, I took them from him. I buried them to keep them safe…my God, I forgot all about them! They're back at the clearing!"

The hunter watched his friend cringe in the saddle, rounding his shoulders as though he expected a blow. Obviously, he expected Van Helsing's anger and believed it was well deserved.

Instead, Van Helsing merely nodded and kept his eyes straight ahead as he said quietly, "That's good news. When we're done at Wellys, we'll return to the clearing to collect them."

Carl eyed the other man carefully, his manner was hesitant as he asked, "You're…not angry with me? You're not going to scold me?"

The hunter shook his head, shrugging. "Would it do any good?"

"Well, no. But…that's never stopped you before. Aren't you feeling well?"

Van Helsing snorted with humor as he lowered his head and pondered the reins in his hands. "I think this time you can be forgiven, Carl. You've been through a great deal; anyone might be inclined to be forgetful."

"Oh. Well, I suppose so," Carl agreed readily, then brightened as he sat up straighter, one hand rising to hold a grubby finger aloft. "And, let's not forget that I _did_ save your things, even if we have to go back for them."

"I'm not forgetting."

The friar's features eased into a smile and for a few moments they rode in amicable silence with the hunter focusing on the trail ahead of them and the friar focusing on picking off various odious oddments from his clothing. As he flicked away the latest unidentifiable blob from one shoulder, he spoke with a firm resolve in his voice. "When we get to this village, I vote the first thing we do is get some decent clothing that fits properly."

"Agreed. Then we'll speak with Mistress Sarah."

After a small time, Carl spoke again. "What do you suppose became of the girl? The Other One? Do you think the other wolves took her back with them?"

Van Helsing shrugged; mindful of Carl's interest in the girl, he was hesitant to voice an opinion while at the same time he wanted to prepare the friar for the worst. "Knowing how strong the need to pack is, it would make sense…. But she and Devon appeared to be alone; it's possible they might have destroyed her. I know that upsets you…."

"But not you," Carl murmured.

"No, not me. I could feel the evil in her; she had a hatred for humans, even for the human within her. Her only saving grace was the possibility that her offspring would be born without the evil."

"Now we'll never know," Carl sighed. He didn't acknowledge the hunter's comforting hand upon his shoulder; instead tightening his knees about his horse, he urged it forward so that he could ride alone with his thoughts.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

Rating: PG13

Pairing: Carl/Gabriel, the beginnings of a slash relationship

Series/Sequel: The continuation of **Brother Wolf**

**Notes: Van Helsing and Carl arrive at the village only to have the plans scuttled by an old friend**

Warning: Aspersions against the Church of Van Helsing's time (which I feel are merited), the ongoing relationship of Gabriel and Carl that with togetherness, deepens.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play

**Feedback**: You do tend to get the juices flowing! I hope this new chapter does the same for you. This story has already changed from the original plot thanks to your comments so in a very large way you are writing this story as much as I. As to what will come next—I guess we'll all have to wait and see! To _**MagRowan (very good, very provocative question…), KaindeAmedha419, .xiX.moonofdespairXix., GlasTriskellion and milady dragon**, _thank you for your input and suggestions. You do make writing fun!

_I'm submitting this chapter before my vacationing beta,**Chibi-Kaz**, gets a chance to look at it. Hopefully any errors contained within aren't too egregious! _

Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

**SISTER WOLF 2**

Nikko kept to the shadows as he circled the inn, carefully checking for any sign of guests or visitors. As expected for such an out-of-the-way establishment, any custom the inn saw was sporadic and left quickly.

He made certain he was well hidden with a good view by the time Van Helsing and Carl emerged with the innkeeper and went to the barn. His eyes narrowed and he licked his lips as his eyes flitted from one man to the next. He recognized the clothing the hunter and friar wore and cursed quietly. In one night, he had lost everything to these two; it never occurred to him to blame himself or even the werewolves for that loss. And it never occurred to him to change the original plans he had made for the two men; if anything, he was more determined than ever to go through with them.

But first…. Nikko 's eyes critically gauged the innkeeper's form—he was somewhat shorter, somewhat rounder…but he would do. Additionally, Nikko had no doubt the man was well stocked with weapons, something the mercenary intended to avail himself of first thing. After that, he would help himself to a good horse and some provisions.

When Van Helsing and Carl reappeared, leading their horses, Nikko watched and listened avidly as money was exchanged and directions were given to Wellys. He raised his eyebrows and frowned as he wondered what interest would a witch who could control werewolves have for Van Helsing? Surely he didn't think she could cure the poison he carried in his body? Maybe he was hoping she would be able to give him some ridiculous amulet or tea that would keep the wolf at bay. Nikko had met a great many witches in his travels and all were charlatans, it was doubtful Mistress Sarah would prove to be any different.

Still, Van Helsing's little foray to the village would prove fortunate for Nikko —judging by the innkeeper's instructions, the villagers didn't take to werewolves. They might prove to be most amenable to Nikko 's plans once he told them about Van Helsing's unfortunate little _problem_.

In the meanwhile…. Nikko rose from his hiding spot as Van Helsing and Carl rode off into the woods and the innkeeper returned to the inn; it was time for him to do something about his current nakedness. The innkeeper was about to have another guest, one that he would be most generous to. In return for his generosity, Nikko planned to give the man a quick and merciful death. It was the least he could do.

* * *

Van Helsing's and Carl's first sight of Wellys was sudden and unexpected--the thick dark wood abruptly gave way to low sunny hills and Wellys nestled between their swelling surfaces like a Rubenesque beauty upon silk pillows.

The hunter and friar sat silent upon their horses, each man lost in his own thoughts as they looked over the village sprawled out in a grid-like pattern below. As the innkeeper had said, it wasn't a large village, but it had an air of such colorful, open-armed welcome about it that it appeared almost wanton.

"**_This_** is the village that doesn't welcome strangers?" Carl asked, leaning forward over his horse's neck to peer at the vista in disbelief.

"Keep your eyes open," the hunter said and gently touched his heels to his mount's sides, urging him slowly forward.

Their way took them down a mild incline and then across a broad green field. The citizens of the village had plenty of time to note their approach, but no one met them when they finally stepped foot on Wellys' broad main street. Looking about, they noted the main street and those branching off it were all deserted. The houses were made of wood and were rustic but well-tended. Before most were cheery beds of flowers or small gardens that added color and life—but the windows and doors of the houses were shuttered and closed tight.

As Van Helsing started forward, Carl caught his arm and gestured with his chin to a nearby wooden post that stood solitary sentinel over the road. A close look at the weathered wood disclosed a tarnished silver disk with elaborate tracery etched deeply into the metal. The hunter raised his hand and carefully touched the disk, running his fingers over it.

"Is this the charm the innkeeper talked about?"

"I'd guess so," Carl said, fascinated. Urging his horse closer, he too touched the disk, his fingers traced the dips and swirls of the seemingly fanciful design without evoking any memory of having seen like markings before.

"Would this actually works against werewolves?"

The friar could only shrug while he made a silent vow to find out all he could before leaving the village. "I suppose we should go in…you know, I feel very odd sitting here like this; it feels as if we're being watched."

"We probably are," the hunter agreed and urged his horse forward. "Stay alert."

Their progress through the streets was slow and ginger as they watched for signs of the inhabitants. They passed several shops and domiciles, all with their windows shuttered and their doors shut tight. The village had all the appearances of being a remarkably well-kept ghost town.

After several seconds, Carl observed quietly in a worried tone, "Why can't we, just once, ride into a village, settle at an inn, eat dinner, and go to bed without having to fight our way through half the inhabitants?"

The hunter's reply was checked as he noted several men running from one house to the next, half crouched and carrying various implements that could be very handily used as weapons.

"It looks like we're about to meet the villagers," he murmured to his friend.

"Maybe a simple introduction will work?" Carl asked as he worriedly peered about them. "What do you say to a man who wants to stick a pitchfork into you?"

"Owch?" the hunter suggested.

From all sides, from houses and behind houses the men of the village emerged, each grim faced and nervous, they approached warily with their various weapons presented and jabbing at the two men.

Van Helsing and Carl backed their horses away, angling toward a two-story building; at the last moment, the hunter directed his gaze upward.

"Stop!" he barked, grabbing for Carl's reins.

As the horses came to an abrupt halt two dark shapes hurtled past their tails to thud onto the ground. Carl whirled about, peering over his horse's rump at two men lying flat out on the ground, covered in a heavy length of netting, groaning piteously.

"Oh my," Carl breathed. "That had to hurt."

Van Helsing kept his attention upon the crowd before them, his eyes moving from one nervous gaze to the next until he found a pair of eyes that didn't dart away from his. The eyes belonged to a tall red-headed man with an oddly purple face that was narrowed like the blade of an axe to terminate in a sharply pointed nose and stubbled chin. His clothing was dark and nondescript and he wouldn't have normally stood out, but, once identified, it was obvious the other men deferred to him. It was to him Van Helsing directed his questions.

"What do you want with us?"

The redhead licked his lips and jerked his head at the other men as he spoke to Van Helsing and Carl.

"We don't want strangers in our village. No one invited you here."

"We were told about your village by the landlord of the inn," Van Helsing said, his eyes narrowing when the other men reacted and began to fidget, their weapons lowering slightly. "We've come looking for information from one of your people…her name is Sarah."

The redhead frowned ferociously at the men about him and, abashed, they slowly raised their weapons again. When he was satisfied, he returned his gaze to the two men before him. "We want to be sure you're not demons in human guise. If you're human, you're welcome among us."

"What if we're not?" Carl breathed, his wide blue eyes darting from one grim face to another.

"That would be bad for you," the red head assured him. "Now, one at a time…get down off your horses…the dark one first."

"What about your friends?" Carl asked, pointing back at the two men who were now weakly struggling and cursing within the net. The friar's horse plainly didn't care for the activity taking place at his feet and nervously picked up one foot and then the other, replacing them perilously close to the two men. Carl winced with sympathy. "Shouldn't someone make sure they're all right?"

"Don't worry about them," the redhead snarled, his complexion darkening with an ugly flush. "Maybe a fall will shake some brains loose. Now, get down from your horse."

The hunter shrugged; holding up his hands, he slung one leg over the pommel of the saddle and slid down to the ground. Moving slightly to one side, he stood, hands raised, plainly waiting. And waited.

After several seconds elapsed, the redhead angrily elbowed a large portly blond man who stood at his side. When the fellow looked at him in surprise, the redhead rolled his eyes and jerked his weapon at Van Helsing.

The blond licked his chapped lips nervously as he edged forward; his grey eyes watched Van Helsing as though he were a snake poised to strike.

Meeting the blond's eyes, Van Helsing waited until he had approached quite closely before suddenly leaning forward and growling, "**_Boo_**!"

With a strangled yell, the blonde tumbled backward, falling to his substantial bottom with a loud dusty _whump_; uttering a breathy sound of panic, he scrabbling back from the hunter. All at once, all of the weapons were up and ready, pointed firmly at the friar and hunter, and the air became electric with fear. Only the redhead seemed to maintain his calm. He sneered at the blond before turning his attention to the hunter.

"Very funny. You'll be laughing from a new mouth if you do something like that again."

Van Helsing made no reply, not even a nod. He suspected the slightest move would cause one of their nervous captors to slide several inches of iron into his body. It occurred to him that, perhaps, teasing obviously frightened men was hardly a good idea.

Turning from Van Helsing, the redhead's sneer returned as he shoved his foot into the backside of the still-cowering blond. "Get up, check him!"

"Why don't **_you_** check him!" the blond retorted angrily as he shoved the other man's foot away.

"Because I asked you to do it, donkey brains! Now hurry up!"

"Why don't you tell us what you're looking for?" the hunter suggested, interrupting what looked to be a lengthy squabble.

"Yes, why are you so afraid?" Carl asked, leaning forward over his horse's neck to address his remarks to the other men, watching them with curiosity and interest. "We saw the medallion. Isn't _that_ supposed to keep werewolves out?"

Van Helsing closed his eyes, his lips thinning in a rueful grimace as the men drew back in alarm and whispered amongst themselves. Carl, watching their reactions and the pleased look in their leader's eyes, waved his hands as if to erase his words as he vigorously shook his head.

"Nononono! We were _told_ about the werewolves by the innkeeper. He gave us Sarah's name and said if we mentioned him you would allow us to see her."

"How do we know you're telling the truth?" the blond blustered; having gotten to his feet and retreated to a safe distance, he had found his tongue and his courage again.

Van Helsing opened his eyes and jerked his head toward his horse. "Don't these horses look familiar?"

"Enough!" the redhead shouted and shoved the blond angrily forward.

What happened next seemed to occur in slow motion. The blond stumbled in an awkward attempt to avoid plowing directly into Van Helsing. Instead, he hit the horse who promptly reared. Carl's horse dodged to the side, unseating the friar so that he fell on the blond who set up a loud panicked yelling. The noise further spooked the horses, causing them both to rear and strike out. Van Helsing attempted to catch the reins in an effort to calm them—his hasty movement caused the men behind him to panic with the result that a large club was swung in a whistling trajectory that ended at Van Helsing's back and head.

The last thing the hunter remembered was the sound of the blond, still yelling, and Carl's voice shouting his name.

* * *

"Well…he's got a very hard head…that's good."

"Why? Because otherwise it would have splatted like an overripe pumpkin?"

"I can understand you're upset…but a friar should have more patience with men's tempers and fears."

"Send them to visit me in Rome , I'll be more than patient with a confessional wall between us!"

"Friars don't take confessions."

"Oh! Then I guess there's no reason for your homicidal maniacs to leave home, then, is there!"

Van Helsing listened to the arguing voices as they flew from one side of him to the other and back. Apparently, Carl was arguing with…whomever…across his prone body. He was tempted to drift back into darkness but as he listened to the argument, the darkness pulled further and further away. With a feeling of resignation, he admitted that he was awake and would have to deal with whatever was waiting for him.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes, then groaned as the light lanced into them with almost gleeful malice.

"He's awake!" two voices exclaimed. A set of hands touched Van Helsing's shoulder, patting it gently.

"You know," said Carl, with obvious relief in his voice, "these close calls of yours are taking years off my life.

"They're not doing great things for me either," the hunter grunted, raising one hand to rub at his forehead before using it to shield his eyes as he squinted at the bright light.

"Oh! The light hurts your eyes? I…I can do something…about that…."

There was a creaking sound followed by the rustle of fabric and abruptly the room's light became dim. With the darkness came a degree of comfort and Van Helsing removed his hand and peered through the dimness at Carl's upside-down face above him. The friar was looking decidedly pleased; he had also, at some point, changed his clothing.

"You're back in sackcloth?" the hunter asked, squinting.

"Yes, despite our initial greeting, this village actually has something to recommend it," the friar said smugly, gesturing off to the side.

As the hunter's eyes rolled to the side, another man emerged from the gloom to hover at his side. Van Helsing's first impression of the man consisted almost entirely of nose--a very generous nose, with expansive nostrils that seemed to waggle almost continuously. When he dragged his eyes away from the twin caverns, he discovered brown eyes set in deep eye sockets and a small pink mouth that smiled nervously. He also noticed that the man wore the same type of robe as Carl was now wearing.

"You're a friar?" Van Helsing asked hesitantly.

"A monk, actually," the other man's smile wobbled, growing larger, then diminishing, then stretching large once again. "My name is Brother Chester."

"He's the one who called those hooligans off of us," Carl explained eagerly, completely ignoring the good brother's frown of censure over his choice of words. "He had them bring you here, to the church."

"Well…a makeshift church," Brother Chester amended, with a sigh. "I've been here only a few short months…."

" Rome sent him!" Carl exclaimed. "So he knows all about us."

"Well, a good deal, anyway," the brother amended cautiously. "I was able to allay their fears and, after that, they were more than eager to make amends. They're not bad men; they simply get a trifle zealous when protecting the village."

Van Helsing's head was beginning to whirl as the two men dueled to be the one to tell him everything. It was difficult to make sense of the flow of information and a horrendous headache was quickly blooming behind his eyes that was turning his stomach. As the two men continued their verbal barrage, it was almost a relief to allow the dizzying kaleidoscope of sound to carry his senses away into merciful darkness.

* * *

When Van Helsing awoke again, it was still dark, but the dimness had the cool naturalness to it of genuine night. He shifted gingerly and discovered that he was lying upon a soft pad with a plump pillow behind his head. Things appeared to be looking up.

From behind and to the side of his head, a soft snore alerted him that Carl had been keeping a vigil over him. The thought of his comfort-loving friar sacrificing dearly-loved sleep time to watch over him gave the hunter an unexpectedly warm feeling. It had been a long, long time since he'd enjoyed that type of caring.

"Carl?"

The rasping, slightly wheezy snore hitched and was followed by a grunt and then a low moan.

"I think my neck is broken," Carl whimpered.

Van Helsing waited as a great deal of shifting and groaning took place out-of-sight before the rasp of a match was followed by a soft yellow glow of light. Carl appeared, carefully holding a fat yellow candle balanced upon a white saucer; with a sigh, he seated himself on the side of Van Helsing's bed.

"You're feeling better? You gave us quite a scare, you know."

"I'm sorry about that."

"Mmm, well given the circumstances I suppose it was inevitable—but that doesn't mean you should egg it on by shouting '_Boo'_ at crazed men wielding clubs."

"You're right, Carl."

"Of course I'm right," the friar assured him with complete gravity. "That's why you bring me on these jaunts into monsterland, because I'm right. It wouldn't hurt you to listen occasionally, though. What's the point of having me about if you won't listen?"

"I don't know," the hunter grunted as he slowly heaved himself up to a sitting position. Gingerly, he touched the back of his head, wincing at the large knob.

"Do you have a headache? I have some tea that Brother Chester says will help with that. Here…."

An incongruously dainty cup and saucer edged into the hunter's view; when he raised an eyebrow at it, Carl only shrugged.

"Donated, of course," the friar assured him. "Beggars can't be choosers and there is nothing wrong with the tea itself, so drink it down."

Easing back so that his back was braced against the bed's headboard, the hunter accepted the cup, leaving the saucer behind for Carl to hold. Sniffing at the dark brew, he grimaced at the weedy smell of it.

"Never mind what it smells like. Hold your nose if you have to…" the friar directed sternly.

With a zealous friar who brooked no argument before him and a dark vicious headache blooming rapidly behind his eyes, the hunter steeled himself and gulped the brew down. It tasted as badly as it smelled and he made a noise of disgust as he shoved the empty cup back at the friar.

"More?" Carl asked with a grin.

In lieu of answering, Van Helsing shifted, tapping one blanketed leg against Carl. "I want to get up. Were you able to find me something to wear?"

"Of course, they're on the table. I'll wait outside for you."

Gathering himself together, the friar departed the room, leaving the hunter to sort himself out.

* * *

Nikko made certain that he entered the village boldly, making a great show of touching the amulet guarding the street. Once he did that, he dismounted his horse and waited.

It didn't take long for the men of the village to appear, all of them rearmed and wary. They seemed surprised to see him waiting on foot and more surprised when he released the horse's reins and slapped its rump, directing to the side so that he stood alone before them.

"I'm grateful to have found this village," Nikko said, his dark eyes sad and haunted. "I've been tracking two men…one tall and dark, the other smaller and blond."

"Tracking?" A redheaded man called, shoving forward. "Why would you be tracking these men?"

"They're murderers," Nikko said with smooth gravity, noting the horrified reaction of the men before him with pleasure. "The dark one, Van Helsing, is notorious all over Europe for the murders he's committed. I happen to know that he carries the blood of werewolves in his body. He's used the wolf more than once to kill."

"But…but…," a blond man stuttered, then fell back as the redhead violently gestured him to be silent.

"How do we know this is the truth?" the redhead asked, eyes narrowing. "We've heard this man is in the employ of the Vatican …."

"He is in their employ…but they only recently become aware of the crimes he's guilty of," Nikko interrupted firmly. "As for my veracity, you have only to send some men back to the inn. I just came from there."

"Yes, they said they had been sent by the innkeeper," the blond said, gray eyes wide.

"Hmm, well he's in no position to verify that for you," Nikko growled. "He's been murdered--torn into bloody pieces."

The mercenary watched the villagers' horrified reaction with a sense of satisfaction. At one time in his checkered career, he'd toyed with the idea of going on stage. It was a pleasant surprise to find he hadn't lost his touch. Still, as enjoyable as he found the situation to be, it was time to move things along.

"I don't ask that you take me at face value," he assured them. "Place me in a secure area while you check out my story. But, for your own sakes, put Van Helsing and his minion in custody as well. When you find that I have told you the truth, we can make arrangements for me to take them back to Rome ."

There was a great deal of whispering and the mercenary waited patiently through it all. He'd said enough; Van Helsing's own reputation would be enough to hang him. He had only to wait.

* * *

Carl looked up from his slouched position against the dark hall wall when the hunter's door opened. He smiled with satisfaction as he noted the dark sweater and pants he'd selected for Van Helsing fit him well.

"Brother Chester is in the library," he said, pushing up from the wall to fall into step beside his friend. "He can probably give us some information on Sarah."

As they approached the lighted room at the end of the hall, they could hear the muted sounds of several men talking. Van Helsing caught Carl's shoulder, pulling him back as a loud "_Quiet! They'll hear you!_" was followed by Brother's Chester 's horrified assurance "But there must be some mistake!"

"I think we need to rethink our stay here," Van Helsing murmured grimly.

"But what about Sarah?"

"We'll have to do without her. Come on." Stepping back quietly from the library, the two men turned to retrace their steps only to stop as the muzzle of a very large, very deadly gun appeared before them. Emerging from the darkness, the redhead smiled grimly at them.

"Hold your hands up and back up…slowly."

Carl blinked as he gingerly raised his hands and did as directed. Beside him, he could feel the tension thrumming through Van Helsing's body as he reluctantly did the same and the friar sent up a silent prayer that the hunter would continue to cooperate. Somehow, he didn't think even Van Helsing's legendary hard skull would withstand a bullet.

As they backed into the lighted room, Carl turned his head slightly to check his path. What he saw made his eyes widen hugely as he squeaked, "Nono! Not the…"

A tremendous club impacted with Van Helsing's head solidly, dropping the hunter in his tracks. Carl sighed ruefully as he looked down at his friend. "Not the head again."

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

Rating: PG13

Pairing: Carl/Gabriel, the beginnings of a slash relationship

Series/Sequel: The continuation of **Brother Wolf**

**Notes: Van Helsing and Carl meet Sarah**

Warning: Aspersions against the Church of Van Helsing's time (which I feel are merited), the ongoing relationship of Gabriel and Carl that with togetherness, deepens.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play

**Feedback**: This one came fairly easily, I was surprised! I hope that doesn't mean that it sucks! To **_Illudrae, .xiX.moonofdespairXix., GlasTriskellion, and milady dragon_**, thank you so much for reviewing! I've found that hearing your views and feelings affects the stories I write so profoundly. You really do change them in wonderful ways. We get to meet Sarah in this chapter so all of you who were guessing how that would happen get to see you were quite right! I thought about changing the plot, but it didn't seem fair. If you guess right, then you should find that out. So here she is!

_To **Chibi-Kaz**, my much honored and often put-upon Beta, here you go! Make it shine, please!_

Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

**SISTER WOLF 3**

_She stood on all fours, immobile, blending almost perfectly with the ghostly speckled trunks of the dead trees all about her. Only her eyes gave her away—they glowed in the darkness like hot brilliant flames as they watched him. She was several yards away, but her gaze held him pinned and helpless, waiting. His hunter's instincts told him to escape, but his body wouldn't obey. So they stood, watching each other, making no other move except to slowly blink. _

_When at last she moved, it came as a relief. Loping on all fours through the darkness, she threading sinuously around the trunks that were in her way, sometimes disappearing from sight only to reappear much closer. His mouth was dry, his body shaking; he stood and waited for her. Her soft muzzle was open, laughing at him, as she disappeared behind another tree. This time, she didn't reappear, though he could still sense her watchful hot gaze. _

_

* * *

_

Van Helsing came awake again slowly with a feeling of weary resignation. Before he opened his eyes he could already tell that he was bound in a thick cocoon of rope and was lying on the floor within the village's equivalent of a jail cell. There was something about cells, whether established or make-due…they all felt and smelled the same. He found it slightly disturbing that he'd been in enough of them to know that fact.

Gingerly, he cracked his eyes open to find the area was lit by a diffused light that mercifully didn't aggravate the headache that was proving to be his constant companion. How many times could a blunt object impact his skull before he woke up a drooling idiot? He had a nasty suspicion he was pushing the envelope.

The room was large, windowless and dusty. Illumination came from two candles sitting on top of a high shelf. He was lying on the floor, near one of the walls; even in the dim light he could see his cocoon of rope was festooned with silver medals and the pungent aroma of several types of herbs wafted outward every time he moved. His nose wrinkled in disgust as he realized he stank like an open meadow at high noon. To take his mind off the smell, he turned his attention to the rest of the room--there was no furniture but there were plenty of scrapes and drag marks on the floor. Evidently, the chamber had served as a storage room before it had been elevated to a jail.

Carl was lying on his back at Van Helsing's feet with his tied hands behind him. The villagers apparently hadn't thought it necessary to cocoon Carl and, while he had several silver medallions about his neck, he'd been spared the herbal treatment. The friar had a small bloody cut on his forehead, but otherwise he looked unharmed. Lying on his tied hands as he was, the friar couldn't possibly be comfortable but plainly that hadn't stopped him from falling asleep, judging by his wheezy snorts and snores. A smile touched the hunter's mouth as he watched his friend; Carl's predictability in the face of their chaotic world was a comforting thing. He wished he could allow the friar his rest… Tsking, he grimaced in remorse as he wriggled slightly closer and nudged the friar with his foot.

Carl grumbled and smacked his lips as his eyes reluctantly cracked open to slits. It was easy to see he didn't recognize where he was for the several seconds his eyes tracked over the room, his position on the floor, and Van Helsing lying bound beside him. When he attempted to move and rediscovered his bound hands, his blue eyes widened perceptibly as the haze of sleep immediately disappeared.

"Oh," the friar said, blinking rapidly as he wriggled about until he could sit up. "I…_ungh!_...I hoped it was a dream…. _Owch_! My head…." The friar grimaced, squeezing his eyes open and shut several times. "Why do they always aim for the head?"

The hunter made no reply and Carl opened his eyes blearily to see Van Helsing squirm and wriggle until he was propped up in a semi-sitting position against the wall. It occurred to Carl that his friend looked a great deal like a large angry caterpillar and he bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep the laughter that image evoked from getting out. "Er…ahem," Carl coughed apologetically as the hunter's irritated gaze turned to him. "Why do you suppose they tied you up like that and not me?"

"They must not believe you're a werewolf," the hunter said grimly.

"But, why tie me up, then? Why put me in here with you? It has to be something more than that…."

Van Helsing's reply was forestalled as a noise from the closed door to their cell caught the two men's attention. The rough grating sound of a bar being pulled back was followed by the door being pulled open with a loud annoying squeal of rusty hinges.

Van Helsing closed his eyes, his brow furrowing in hard ridges as he felt the strength of his headache ramp upward.

Following the door's opening, all became silent again for several long seconds, during which Carl and Van Helsing exchanged glances of surprise. Outside the open doorway they could see it was night, but there was no way to tell how much time had elapsed since their capture beyond the fact that neither man's beard seemed any heavier.

"Should we…," Carl started to say only to halt as Van Helsing shook his head firmly.

A shadow fell across the doorway, then two, then suddenly a body was propelled into the small room. Van Helsing and Carl had the barest opportunity to ascertain it was a man and that he was as tightly bound as Van Helsing before he fell to the floor and skidded across the planed wood to crash head first into the far wall. At the same time, another loud, grating squeal from the door's hinges assured them they were once again locked in.

Turning to their visitor, Carl leaned forward on his hip, craning his neck to peer awkwardly at the still figure, and then blew out a huff of air in frustration. Making up his mind, he began alternately grunting and huffing as he struggled up to his knees, and then staggered to his feet.

"Carl?" Van Helsing frowned as the friar made _shush_ noises at him.

"If he's in here with us, he might simply be another unlucky traveler to this misbegotten village," Carl murmured as he began to edge over the intervening space.

"And he might actually _be_ a werewolf," Van Helsing growled. "There _are_ a few of them out there."

"Well, if he's a werewolf or not, we're stuck in here with him. Might as well…get…a… oh no!"

Van Helsing silently cursed as he watched Carl's mouth drop open and his skin drain of color. "Carl!"

Without demur, the friar immediately dropped back and hastily retraced his steps to Van Helsing's side. This time, he leaned against the wall and simply slid down to settle at the hunter's hip with a _thump_.

Van Helsing craned his neck awkwardly so that he could see the friar's face. "Carl? Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?"

" Nikko", Carl muttered, swallowed, and then nodded vigorously. "It's Nikko."

The hunter's eyes narrowed as he looked at the mercenary and a small cynical smile touched his lips. "So that's why we're in here. No doubt he told them about my being infected…he probably also told them I was a murderous madman who's wanted all over Europe. You, no doubt, are supposed to be my amoral and equally murderous partner."

"How are we going to convince them otherwise?" Carl asked worriedly. "If they believe him, does that mean they'll send for the Inquisition?"

Van Helsing's answer was again forestalled as a rattle at the door announced yet another interruption. "Now what?" he growled. "This cell gets more visitors than the Sunday confessional!"

The door was once again flung open, this time to reveal a gathering of the village men. As they walked into the cell, the hunter raised an eyebrow at them.

"Don't you people ever sleep? Now what is it?"

Instead of answering, they came to the hunter and friar and pulled them upright. One of the men knelt at Van Helsing's feet and, with a sharp knife, first cut the ropes that bound his legs and then his arms, leaving only his wrists tied. After having his legs immobilized for so long, they promptly gave out, but his captors caught him before Van Helsing could fall all the way to the floor. Bearing most of his weight, they carried him from the cell as Carl was pushed along after.

"Where are you taking us?" Carl asked, his blue eyes flying from one man to the next. "What are you going to do?" Looking back over his shoulder, he noted that their former captor and roommate Nikko was not also being brought out. When he tripped because he wasn't looking where he was going, they wordlessly caught him up under the arms and propped him back up before pushing him forward again.

The hut that had been their jail cell was at the back of the village, requiring them to thread their way through the dark streets. Oddly enough, the door to every house they passed was wide open. There were no people in the streets besides themselves and their captors, nor any signs of life within the houses. But, over the rooftops, a tremendous glare lit the night sky and illuminated the grim faces of the silent men who accompanied them. Looking about, Carl noted that he didn't see the redheaded leader nor his reluctant blond cohort. In fact, he didn't recognize any of the men surrounding them.

"Van Helsing?" Carl called as his worried gaze flicked from one face to the next. The hunter ahead of him was being pushed along but Carl noted no undue force was being used. When the hunter refused to cooperate, his captors wordlessly carried him—one man at his knees, the other at his shoulders. The message was abundantly clear—walk or be carried, it didn't' seem to matter which.

The closer they approached to that tremendous light, the more worried Carl became. He could smell smoke now and the night air was much warmer. What purpose would this unwelcoming village have for such a huge blaze? Unbidden and unwelcome, a mental image formed within the friar's mind of other huge fires and the parts they played in ridding such backwater villages as Wellys of their undesired witches. It didn't take a great leap of imagination to visualize himself and Van Helsing being disposed of in such a manner. Carl began to squirm and twist against the hands that held him, lashing out with his feet and then, in desperation, with his teeth. Suddenly, a man stepped in front of Carl and before he had a chance to realize what was to happen, a large calloused palm roughly slapped him so hard that he fell to his knees. He could taste blood now and felt it dripping down his chin; spitting roughly, he fought the hands that dragged him to his feet again.

"Leave him alone! If you want to hit someone, hit me!" Van Helsing snarled.

The man who had struck Carl paused, looking from the hunter to the friar, then stepped back; the men who escorted Carl lifted him off his feet, their hold on him was more careful this time. He might struggle, but he wouldn't be able to injure or even slow them down appreciably.

Only a single line of dark houses were between them and the blaze now; as they rounded the last corner, Carl gasped.

The square was filled with werewolves and people, their faces and eyes were red with the light of the leaping flames. They formed a half circle about the blaze, all of them facing outward as if waiting for the group's arrival.

Carl's eyes were watering with the heat and the smoke and he blinked furiously so that he could see more clearly. The half circle was three deep and as he squinted, he could see faces that he recognized in the back. The blond man was there, as were the two men who had fallen in their disastrous attempt to net Van Helsing and himself. He spotted the redhead as well, standing well to the front, next to a very familiar werewolf.

Abruptly, he and the hunter were both dropped to the ground, then pulled up to their knees where they were kept with hands pressing firmly down upon their shoulders. They were very close to one another, their shoulders touching. Carl turned his head, looking at the hunter and his set grim face. He shivered as the firelight caught Van Helsing's hazel eyes and turned them gold.

"Van Helsing…that werewolf to the right…it's the Other One. I know it is."

The hunter nodded. "You're right. It appears our paranoid villagers aren't as frightened of werewolves as they would have us believe."

"But…why?"

"_This_ is the village of werewolves, Carl. What better way to mask that than to have a seemingly human population who are outwardly terrified of werewolves."

"Then none of them are human?"

"Not the way you understand that word, no."

The voice that broke into their conversation was a quiet dulcet murmur that trickled over their senses like warmed honey. It seemed as if the night noises had stopped completely, even the crackling of the fire became muted as a tall willowy blond moved out of the ranks of villagers to stand before them. She smiled and stood at ease, allowing them to look their fill.

Though she could not be said to be beautiful, there was a voluptuousness about her that made Carl's mouth go dry and his muscles tighten. Beside him, he felt Van Helsing shift, rocking slightly from one knee to the other. She was tall for a woman, standing close to six feet in height; her body structure was mature and womanly with a narrow flat waist and swelling hips and bosom. When his eyes reached hers, he felt an unwelcome tightening in his groin. From her dark red lips to her olive skin tones to her shining blond hair she exuded a sense of sexuality. Her irises were a pale gold that shone like reflective disks in the firelight; Carl shivered when he realized what made them seem odd was the diamond shape of her pupils.

"You like what you see?" she asked Van Helsing, smiling so that the tips of her white teeth glittered.

The hunter's eyes darted over her once again, then past her to take in the waiting crowd. When his gaze returned to hers, he raised one eyebrow. He could sense no evil within the woman before him, but he knew she was the Alpha wolf. Her presence swirled about his senses, setting them alight; he remembered the wolf as he looked into her golden eyes and felt her touch and the warmth of her tongue on his skin.

Her smile softened as she moved toward him, her hands rising to caress his face and hair, exploring him as he had explored her with his eyes. Leaning down, she rubbed her face over his, nuzzling her nose against his eyes as she made soft breathy noises of pleasure. When she took his mouth, it was with a ferocity that rocked his head back. Her hands dug into his long hair, pulling his head forward as she sank to her knees, her mouth never leaving his.

Carl felt a hot tide of color wash over his skin as he watched the kiss and listened to the moist sucking sounds of their passion. He was no prude, but surely this was neither the time nor the place.

"Eer…Van Helsing? Van Helsing?"

Neither man nor woman paid the slightest attention. Carl huffed as he shifted awkwardly on his knees. He was beginning to sweat with the fire's heat, or so he told himself, and he was damned uncomfortable.

"You know, I recall your telling me this sort of thing wasn't a good idea. I never even kissed the girl—and don't think she didn't offer!—while you…I'm considering throwing a bucket of water over the two of you!"

Van Helsing shuddered so hard Carl could feel it course through his own body as the hunter pulled away, turning his head to the side. His eyes were closed tightly under drawn brows; Carl stared with fascination at his swollen moist lips. He'd never seen Van Helsing so blatantly aroused. Oh, of course the man wasn't a monk…he'd obviously been with other women in the past and of course he must have enjoyed them with equal passion…. It was just actually _seeing_ it that made Carl realize he'd never thought of Van Helsing in that way before.

The woman gasped for air as her head fell back and her eyes shut. In the flickering firelight, with her body pressed tightly to Van Helsing's and her hands still locked in his hair, while the hunter knelt with his hands tied behind him, it made Carl feel like the worst kind of voyeur and something more…. He couldn't identify it exactly, but he realized that he didn't like this woman.

"Van Helsing?" Carl murmured, hesitantly.

The hunter's eyes remained closed beneath frowning brows; his only acknowledgement of Carl's call was a slight cocking of his head and a tightening of his mouth.

Carl shifted beneath the hands on his shoulders; awkwardly moving his arms to the side, he stretched his hand outward until his muscles spasmed and one finger brushed the hot skin of Van Helsing's wrist.

The hunter's eyes flew open and Carl cowered back as he looked into the golden feral gaze. Abruptly Van Helsing's head fell back as he shouted gutturally at the moon above.

With his shout, all of the werewolves lifted their heads, their muzzles pointed toward the moon as they joined him in his cry. The ululating howl rose and fell, running upward through the spark-filled night air; Carl was certain that it would be heard for miles. Listening to the sound of it, Carl felt a sense of being truly alone and it tore at him with unexpected violence.

"Van…Van Helsing?" He raised his voice but the howling cry easily carried it away. He reached out again, this time catching the other man's wrist hard between thumb and forefinger.

Van Helsing's head dropped down; when his eyes opened, his gaze upon Carl's was completely human once again.

"Are you alright?" Carl shouted to be heard, satisfied when Van Helsing nodded.

The woman's eyes opened and she lifted her head to look from one man to the other, a lazy satisfied cat's grin pricking the corners of her mouth. Easily she rose to her feet, pausing only long enough to run her fingers over Van Helsing's bottom lip. When he turned his head away, she shrugged and stepped back. The night cry began to die down, one voice at a time, until the last rapturous note faded and only the crackling sound of the fire remained. Her smile grew as she looked at the two men kneeling before her.

"I heard that you came here looking for me. I am Sarah, and I will tell you anything you want to know."

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

Rating: PG13

Pairing: Carl/Gabriel, the beginnings of a slash relationship

Series/Sequel: The continuation of Brother Wolf

Notes: Van Helsing and Carl learn about the werewolf society and what is expected of them

Warning: Aspersions against the Church of Van Helsing's time (which I feel are merited), the ongoing relationship of Gabriel and Carl that with togetherness, deepens.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play

Feedback: This one came fairly easily, I was surprised! I hope that doesn't mean that it sucks! To **_MagRowan, KaindeAmedha419, Illudrae, Milady Dragon, .xiXmoonofdespairXix., and GlasTriskellion_**, thank you so much for reviewing! Sarah's intentions are coming clear—her motives are human if not laudable which begs several questions in this werewolf society. I hope you find this chapter thought provoking and satisfying!

To Chibi-Kaz, my much honored and often put-upon Beta, here you go! Make it shine, please!

Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

**SISTER WOLF 4**

With Sarah's words it was as if a spell of immobility that had held the others of the village was lifted, allowing them to move about and approach as they wished. Sarah turned, moving to one side to allow Carl and Van Helsing to watch the seemingly normal people of the village interact with the werewolves. It seemed almost surreal to see the werewolves touch and groom one another and the humans in their midst. Carl watched the plump blond man snuggle happily with a tall grey wolf, his head back, allowing the wolf to lave his throat with a long red tongue. He appeared to enjoy the attention thoroughly as did the werewolf.

Sarah smiled at the pair, murmuring for Carl's and Van Helsing's ears only, "The old one raised him. They have a bond that will last their lives."

"Is he a werewolf as well?" Carl asked. "You said they weren't human, or not as we understood the word. What did that mean?"

Moving to the two men, Sarah gestured for them to be seated on the ground as she too sank down beside Van Helsing. With mixed feelings, Carl watched her put her hand familiarly on the hunter's muscular thigh, stroking it as one would a lover. Van Helsing made no move against the familiarity and Carl felt the odd tightness in his chest again that had first occurred while watching the hunter and the woman kiss. He didn't know what it meant but he was able to realize that he didn't like seeing her touch Van Helsing in that manner, so intimately, as if she owned him.

Shifting about, he waggled his bound hands at the woman. "Er...before we get started, if we're going to be friends now, do you suppose we could get these cut? I'm starting to chafe."

Amusement shone in her odd eyes, but at her gesture, the men that still stood guard behind them leant down and freed the two men. Carl rubbed his wrists to return the circulation as he watched Van Helsing do the same. Sarah watched his every movement, her own hands coming up to catch his as her long fingers explored his fingers, palms and wrists.

"If it won't interrupt too terribly," Carl muttered, his eyebrows rising pointedly, "you were going to explain."

Van Helsing's hazel eyes rose from Sarah's hands on his to meet Carl's gaze, his own dark brows rising as well in query. The friar huffed slightly. It seemed completely impossible that the hunter wouldn't know what he was being pissy about. They were here on a mission, not to get horizontal with the first female werewolf that cast goo goo eyes at Van Helsing. Carl didn't even want to _think_ what the outcome of sex between the hunter and the werewolf would be. Carl had managed to remain detached when similarly provoked, and under some pretty determined efforts. Surely Van Helsing could manage to keep focused despite his and Sarah's playing lover's patty cake with one another.

As if he were able to read Carl's sulky thoughts, the hunter's mouth twitched and a fondness came to his gaze as he held Carl's eyes. Shifting to the side, he moved away from Sarah and closer to the friar, mentally shaking his head as he saw the gleam of satisfaction in Carl's blue eyes. Remembering how he had felt when the Other One had made _her_ attraction known for the blond friar, Van Helsing could well imagine what Carl was feeling now. Whether or not it had to do with the werewolf venom in their blood or simple territoriality of one man watching his friend be wooed by an outsider to their little clique, it really didn't matter. It was a fact.

It was Sarah's turn to look unhappy now, but she didn't pursue Van Helsing. Instead, she turned her attention to answering the question before her.

"Everyone you see has the blood of werewolves flowing through their veins, they are all brothers and sisters to that extent. Some take to the wolf side of their heritage more than others, hence the mix. To give in to the wolf's nature is...comforting. It's simpler, less chaotic. Humans tend to suffer through self hatred, doubt, and self-imposed loneliness. Wolves don't. It's their nature to pack, to demonstrate affection and pleasure easily, and to live in the here and now. Humans live too much outside their own skins, leaving their emotions and needs adrift and wanting."

"If it's so awful to be a human, why aren't they all wolves?" Carl asked as he peered avidly about him. To all sides now, humans and werewolves were interacting. Some were playing—making short rushes at one another only to dance to the side as if inviting the other to give chase. Others were settled in piles of two or more, grooming each other—the wolf licking, the human petting the wolf's thick fur. Occasional yips and snarls could be heard, but no fights broke out. Everywhere Carl looked, the most amazing degree of warm, playful, delighted closeness met his eyes and within himself, against his will, he began to understand. He felt the loneliness Sarah was talking of; though he was surrounded by so many, he was a stranger and separate from their easy familiarity. Unconsciously, he shifted closer to Van Helsing and drew comfort from the feeling of the hunter's body pressed firmly to his side.

Sarah shrugged a knowing light in her golden eyes. "For some, closeness is harder than for others. It takes an act of will for a human to release their fears and inner hatred enough to make themself so open. We do not differentiate between the wolf and the human; they aren't ostracized for their need to hold on to their separateness."

Van Helsing noted the Alpha's eyes moved to pick out the Other One, still standing by the fire, apart and sullen. She was back in her wolfish form, her belly still round and ripe with unborn. Her eyes were fixed upon Carl, a terrible eagerness was in that gaze that the friar thankfully appeared unaware of in his rubbernecking. He welcomed Carl's weight pressing against him, feeling it an affirmation that the friar had his former attraction to the Other One well in hand. He didn't want to imagine what a mating between the man and the werewolf would yield; he would protect Carl from himself if he had to.

"What about her," Van Helsing asked, jerking his chin at the lone female. "She retains the wolf form, but she doesn't appear to fit in."

Sarah shrugged, a degree of irritation now appearing in her manner. "To fully explain that, I'd need to go into depth about our society..."

"We're in no hurry," the hunter interrupted firmly.

"Perhaps not. But your purpose here is still unknown to us, though I can guess what it might be. Before I tell you about us, I would first want to know more about you and your reasons for coming to this village. You have a reputation for being a hunter of monsters...did you come to hunt and destroy the boy Devon? And have you come now to hunt and destroy us?"

Carl felt a touch of anxiety as he sucked at his lower lip, his eyes darting to the werewolves that surrounded them. Van Helsing had an alarming habit of absolute honesty...certainly he wouldn't admit to this village of werewolves that he had come to destroy one of their numbers. The man wasn't suicidal...

"My job is to hunt evil," the hunter said firmly. "My gift is to sense evil. If I had found Devon first and found him to be evil, I would have killed him to save others."

Carl closed his eyes as he mentally threw up his hands.

"And yet now, it is you who carry the blood of werewolves," Sarah mused, her long fingers rising to trace possessively over his shoulder. "How does that fit into your scheme of evil and innocent?"

Carl's eyes snapped open; he spoke almost before was aware of the intent. "Yes, thanks to you and your people, we're _both_ infected with lycanthropy. But being a werewolf does not make one automatically evil any more than carrying the taint of it in one's blood. Van Helsing isn't a murderer; he is a slayer of _evil_ only."

The hunter's eyes dropped as a small smile flirted with the corners of his mouth. Carl's fervent defense was welcome, but more so his understanding that to be a monster did not automatically confer the mark of the devil on the sufferer. The friar had changed since his naive Transylvanian days.

"You resent the 'taint' in your blood?" Sarah asked the friar, her eyebrows rising mockingly.

Carl blinked, his own mouth taking on a pout. Van Helsing watched his friend with a feeling of inevitability and a rueful admission of there being only the slimmest chance that Carl wouldn't speak his mind. The man wasn't suicidal but he had a unique perspective on life that he believed absolutely and didn't hesitate to share. His absolute belief in his own intelligence, modesty aside, and his disarming assumption that despite the 'air being thick with envy' everyone else was sure of it as well tended to make Carl a little...blunt.

"Resent?" Carl asked in awful parody. "Why ever would we 'resent' being gnawed upon by werewolves against our will? Being turned into wolves and having our lives and thoughts turned upside-down without as much as a by-your-leave? Van Helsing has been bitten so often it hardly seems worth the effort to stitch up the holes! You're not animals; you knew what you were doing. I'd be interested to know how many of your 'brothers' and 'sisters' were made against _their_ will?"

Van Helsing sighed, his hazel eyes rising to the stars with the hope that merciful God above was watching out over blunt friars.

Sarah's soft laughter brought the hunter's gaze down with a snap; for whatever reason she seemed to appreciate the friar's directness.

"Fair enough," she smiled, white teeth glittering between her parted lips in a feral smile. "I admit to your charge, in part--though it was not I who introduced the wolf into Van Helsing, I admit to wanting some part of it. I'll explain why. You, little friar, were made against your will, and that is an offense that we do not tolerate. The hunter, also, was re-infected against his will. I think in both cases it was done not to turn you into werewolves—that was simply timing and luck on your parts..."

"Luck!" Carl huffed.

"Yes," Sarah interrupted forcefully. "Certainly it is luckier to be turned into a werewolf than to become the meal of one?"

Carl bit down on his outrage, his eyes moving to Van Helsing as he contritely shrugged. "Yes, well, that thought had occurred to us, actually."

"In our society," Sarah began, evidently having decided that she had heard enough to justify sharing the information with them, "it is only the Alpha wolves—a male and female—who are allowed to create new werewolves. This keeps order in the society and provides a degree of control over who is chosen and who is not."

"And those who aren't chosen?" Van Helsing asked, his eyes narrowing. "What becomes of those?"

The sharp white points of Sarah's teeth made an appearance as she smiled, but no amusement shone in her golden eyes. "We do not make a habit of eating passersby, no matter what you might have found to the contrary in other werewolves. We could hardly do so and remain secret for long. Those that are not chosen never realize that the secret of this village. They are...urged...to depart as quickly as possible and take away only the knowledge that Wellys is an unfriendly little village that they will not visit again."

"What about the ones you chose?" Carl asked. "How do you decide who to turn? And what if they don't want to be turned? That would be a difficult thing to tip toe around, surely?"

The golden eyes of the alpha wolf held an challenging intensity as they fixed upon the friar, though the woman's voice remained as open and confiding as before. Van Helsing frowned as he leaned forward slightly, blocking her view of the friar.

"You chose Devon." Van Helsing said, making it a statement rather than a question. When her eyes dropped before his, he leaned back, settling his weight on his palms in the fire-warmed dirt behind him. "He wanted to be turned?"

"I chose him" Sarah admitted, a degree of ruefulness appearing for the first time in her voice. "He was drawn to us...he recognized something within us that he yearned for, that feeling of togetherness that's part of the wolfish society. I think until he came to us, he had been a very lonely man."

"I think you're right," the hunter agreed grimly. "Go on."

Sarah leaned back on her hands as well, shrugging. "We accepted him into our pack. He met and mated with a female." Sarah's eyes darted to the Other One, frowning. "That was my mistake. She was born a werewolf, but she never accepted the human within her. She turned him from the pack and they left together before we realized what they had planned. It was her intent to form her own pack, making others as she saw fit."

"Did you give Charles the herbs?" Carl asked, edging forward, his gaze intent.

"I did," Sarah sighed. "I had meant to counteract the Other One's influence by drawing him back to his father, back to his human roots."

"With him still a werewolf? What did you think his father could possibly do with him? Did you know what he had planned for Devon?"

"No, I swear it. When we learned, we set out to reclaim both of them."

Carl's eyes were now on the lone female; noting her avid stare and lonely vigil, he murmured, "What's her name?"

"As she never accepted the human within her, she does not have a human name. When wild alpha wolves mate, the male is known as One and the female Other One. She adopted that name when she mated with Devon."

"And now she wants Carl," Van Helsing said grimly. "You said only alphas are allowed to make other werewolves. Carl was bitten by Devon. How does he fit into your society?"

Sarah's golden eyes darted again to the Other One before moving to the friar. "As things are now, he doesn't."

Carl's mouth fell open, then closed, then opened again as his eyes flew from the hunter to the alpha female. "W...what does that mean?" he stammered at last.

"A decision will have to be made..." Sarah began only to be interrupted by the hunter.

"You bit me...even though I was infected by another wolf...other wolves. Why?"

Sarah licked her lips as her eyes played over Van Helsing, and then she shrugged as she sat upright before rising easily to her feet. "I think we have talked enough," she said with a smile. "You should eat and rest. Return to Brother Chester, he will have a room waiting for you. We can talk again in the morning."

Van Helsing was on his feet almost before Carl was aware of his having moved; the hunter's hand caught Sarah's arm in a hard unbreakable grip.

"Carl. Tell us now."

"We have a great many decisions to make—all of us," she murmured. "Tonight is a good time to consider the choices before us, and what they may bring." Indolently, her free hand rose to stroke his chest, and then fell as he released her arm and stepped back out of her reach. His face was closed and his gaze unwelcoming. Her brows dropped in a frown, her eyes narrowing as she searched his face. For an instant, her gaze dropped to the friar still seated upon the warm earth; then, without another word, she turned and left them, disappearing into the shadows and the dancing firelight.

* * *

"She all but threatened us," Carl huffed into his tea cup, gulping the hot liquid then gasping as it seared its way down his throat. Brother Chester was there instantly, refilling it to the brim the second the friar allowed the cup to settle in its saucer again.

"You have to understand," the monk pleaded, his gaze imploring upon the friar and the hunter. "These people...they're not animals...they have human understanding and can devise strategy. Sarah is a lone alpha—her mate was killed in an accident over a year ago. A pack is controlled and guided by its alpha leaders—a male and female. Sarah has managed to retain control this long because she's exceptional. But her mistake with Devon and the Other One and the fact that she's alone, that's counting heavily against her. In normal wolfish society, the beta male and female would gradually usurp control, becoming alphas themselves. The former alpha might be allowed to remain, but she might also be forced to leave."

"So she wants Van Helsing to take her old mate's place?"

Brother Chester winced at Carl's incredulity; huddling back to hug his tea pot tightly to his middle, he shifted from one foot to the other. The other two men were seated in worn but well-padded wing-backed chairs, the plates with the remains of their meals piled haphazardly upon the hassock between them. The good Brother had done everything in his power to make his guests comfortable while zealously avoiding Van Helsing's eyes. Feeling the hunter's gaze upon him now, he sucked his lower lip in as he fiddled with the ill-fitting lid of the tea pot.

"Ah...well...yes...that would be a yes. Partly."

"Partly?" Van Helsing asked, one dark brow rising. Impatiently he looked to Carl to finagle the rest from their host. Van Helsing was at home with a crossbow in his arms, not tiptoeing about double-meanings and wily prevarications.

Dutifully, Carl sat forward, ducking his head as he tried to catch the Brother's shifting eyes. "Partly? There's more? What else do they want? You know we can't make any decisions or plans if we don't know the whole thing."

"Yes...I do realize that...," Brother Chester sighed, then abruptly sagged onto the hassock, narrowly missing planting his posterior in the dirty plates. He addressed himself to Carl, his voice vibrant with apologies and embarrassment.

"Ah...the Other One...the pack is very loyal, especially to expectant mothers. And the mating with Devon was such a dreadful mistake... Sarah thinks...I'm certain she thinks...that if _you_ were to become her mate, the Other One would settle down. You would stay with the pack because of Van Helsing and then the mistake with Devon could be forgotten..."

Brother Chester hazarded a look up at Carl only to wince at his staring wide eyes filled with incredulity.

"But...I'm a friar," Carl spluttered, his tea cup rattling like castanets in the saucer until Van Helsing leaned over and rescued the delicate porcelain.

"So Carl stays because of me, and I stay because of him," the hunter said with a sigh. "It's a good plan. It would work except for the Order."

"And I don't _want_ to be mated to a werewolf!" the friar exclaimed. "Let's not forget that!"

"We won't, Carl," the hunter assured him. "Brother Chester, how much have you told Sarah about the Order?"

"Oh...well...not really anything," the monk assured him fervently. "I mean, there was no reason. They accepted me—a human--in their village without reserve. I thought it was a God given chance to study werewolves in a society—it's never been heard of before, you realize..."

Van Helsing's hazel eyes narrowed as he watched the Brother noting that, for all his apparent sincerity, he still would not meet the hunter's eyes. An internal alarm was going off, one that had warned him in the past when he was being lied to. What was the likelihood that this village of werewolves would welcome the good Brother? Especially if he had told them anything about the Order?

"You're _certain_ you don't have a drop of werewolf in your veins?" Carl asked, peering piercingly at the good Brother who immediately bobbed his head up and down as if his neck were broken.

"Positive," Brother Chester swore.

"Why would they allow a full human to remain in their village?" the hunter asked, leaning forward, his elbows planted on his knees, his hands steepled before his face.

"I don't know," Brother Chester said, blinking rapidly, his eyes darting to Carl's and then down to the tea pot he still cuddled to his chest. "I've spoken with Sarah often—she's asked me many many questions about full humans and how they think and react. I suppose the differing viewpoint comes in handy."

"You're _positive_ Sarah isn't evil?" Carl demanded of Van Helsing, his scrutiny of the sweating Brother shelved for the moment in favor of grilling the hunter.

Van Helsing flopped back in his chair, and closing his eyes, began to rub at the headache building between them. "Yes, Carl, I'm positive. She may be ruthless and self-serving, but she's not evil."

"What about the others? Did you feel anything from them?"

"No." Abruptly Van Helsing dropped his hand to fix his gaze upon the monk again. "The betas...have we seen them? Can you take us to them tomorrow?"

For the first time, Brother Chester's gaze met the hunter's, his light colored eyes were filled with honest surprise and more than a touch of reticence. "Yes...of course," he said dubiously. "But it might not be a good idea considering the state of things. I'm not sure Sarah would approve..."

"We'll take that chance," Van Helsing said firmly. "In the meantime, it's very late..."

"Oh! Of course you must be exhausted!" the Brother exclaimed, leaping up with such obvious relief that the difficult meeting was over that even Carl's self-absorption faltered. Van Helsing made no reply, his tightening lips and narrowed eyes were his only reaction.

Carl and Van Helsing were led to their room—the same room that Van Helsing had awoken in earlier. Brother Chester apologized so profusely about there being only one guest room and that they would have to share the accommodations that at last Carl had to shove him out the door, closing it gently in the Brother's face. When he turned back, it was to see Van Helsing already stripped to the waist, sitting on the edge of the bed as he unlaced his boots.

Shrugging, Carl set about divesting himself of his borrowed robe, folding it neatly before settling it on the chair he'd occupied in his vigil over Van Helsing hours past. Somewhat hesitantly, feeling indecently clad in only linen trousers and a loose linen undershirt, he eased down onto the bed beside Van Helsing and began unlacing his own boots. He darted sideways glances at the other man as his thoughts tumbled about one another. He wanted to talk, now that they were alone, but he wasn't sure what he wanted to say.

Van Helsing arose, the displacement of his weight causing Carl to wobble slightly and almost tip forward. Steadying himself, he peeked at the hunter to make sure Van Helsing hadn't noticed. Apparently the hunter was only interested in a fast evening wash to rinse off the worst of the dirt and the stink of herbs from his skin.

Carl slid into bed, pushing back toward the wall until his firm rear end was squashed up against the plaster. The window of the small room was open, allowing the night air in, bringing with it the smell of woody smoke and ash. He could hear the sounds of the village outside—the familiar calls of human voices were mixed with the exotic sounds of wolves calling to one another with barks, yips, and long drawn out howls that raised the hair on his body. The cacophony of life within the strange village was both beautiful and intimidating. Within him, he felt the wolf stir, stretching and then settling to listen to the calls without; the human portion that Carl was much more familiar and comfortable with felt other stirrings within his blood. Those feelings rose up and entwined about his thoughts, bringing with them the fears of primitive man—the music of wolves was fascinating, but also dangerous.

Carl roused himself to find he had pulled the covers up tight to his chin, and a gentle sweat beaded his face and his tensed body. With an effort, he forced the coverlets down and wiped his face on his arm.

Across the room, amid much splashing, Van Helsing finished his wash up; he turned to the bed, pausing only to pinch out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. Carl held his breath as the bed creaked under the hunter's weight and the rag-stuffed pad that formed the mattress dipped.

"Breathe, Carl," came the soft baritone murmur followed by a deep sigh of comfort as the hunter settled on his pillow.

For several moments, they lay in silence, their eyes adjusting to the room's light that gradually faded from absolute black to grey to a rich deep blue. Carl shifted slightly, easing his numb bum from the wall, feeling surprise as he found plenty of space on the bed to settle upon his back. His shoulder brushed and then pressed against Van Helsing's, but the warmth of the hunter's skin through Carl's thin linen shirt proved comforting. With a little more wriggling, he felt the length of Van Helsing's trousered leg against his own and decided that was acceptable.

"Er…Van Helsing?"

"Mmm."

"All of this…does it worry you?"

In the darkness, the silence stretched for interminable seconds and Carl held his breath, waiting, though he didn't know for what. When he heard Van Helsing's breath exhaled in a long gust, Carl closed his eyes with a feeling of relief. Immediately, he rolled up onto his elbow, planting his cheek in his palm as he looked down at the dim outline of his friend.

"It does, doesn't it. I was afraid that she might have captivated you…."

"No…not 'captivate'," the hunter admitted, his tone rueful. "It's harder to remember who I am when she's near. It's as if being a man is a dream that the wolf is having."

"Mmm," Carl nodded, chewing his lip thoughtfully. "I…when the Other One offered herself to me…it was the same. It's so hard to resist. I've said 'no' to women before, of course … what?"

Van Helsing's snort of suppressed laughter made the friar's eyes narrow. "I'll have you know I'm no randy satyr, Van Helsing. I'm certainly capable of exercising a little control."

"Of course, Carl."

"Hmph. I know you're patronizing me and it's not appreciated."

The hunter was silent for several seconds, and then he nodded. "You're right; I'm sorry, Carl. It just felt so familiar to be teasing you…I'm sorry."

Sighing, Carl patted the man beside him. "It's alright. I suppose I'm being sensitive. I think it's this village—part of me finds it so damned attractive to be able to just release one's cares and feelings of inadequacy and just _be_ and be accepted."

"That's the wolf? Or the man?" Van Helsing murmured, his deep voice gusting over Carl's chilled skin in warm puffs.

"I don't know. I think that's what's so disturbing about all of this," Carl admitted. "I never realized how alone each of us are…how alone I was until this mission."

The friar blinked as a large warm hand touched then entwined with his own lying on the bed between them. He felt a surge of gratitude for the closeness and frowned at it. He wasn't a child that needed his hand held—but he would be lying if he said he didn't feel a deep need for touch that he had never been aware of before.

Van Helsing frowned as well as he became aware of the fact that he had taken the friar's hand. There was nothing wrong with the act, it was a comfort one friend would give another, nothing more. He certainly didn't feel anything overtly sexual in the act—but a part of him found it disturbing. It was uncharacteristic of him to initiate contact. He could play with Carl, tease him and rough house now and again, but neither man was given to outward signs of affection. Now, lying in bed with his friend, they were holding hands—it felt wrong…sinful somehow. But, he had to admit, he found comfort in the simple act.

Thoughtfully, he brought their clasped hands up; resting their arms on his ribcage, he looked at their hands—palm to palm, fingers bent in a firm clasp--and watched his thumb rub over the friar's rough, warm skin.

"This is part of the lycanthropy?"

"I…suppose so," Carl hesitated, watching their clasped hands as if they were unknown quantities whose next move he couldn't begin to fathom. "It feels a little odd…"

"Do you want me to stop?" The hunter released the friar's hand only to have Carl's tighten about his own.

"No! It's alright," Carl hastened to assure him; then, more slowly and thoughtfully, "You know, it might be the lycanthropy that eases our normal reticence to touch—but I don't believe it causes the need. As children, we're used to hugs and comforts from our parents—at some point as we grow up, the touching becomes awkward and it stops. Then, when we marry, it's alright again to have such comforts from our mates. But what about those of us who never marry and who live apart from family?"

"Or whose family aren't the kind and gentle sort," Van Helsing said grimly, thinking of Charles and Devon.

"Or that," Carl agreed sadly. "To find such a thing, to have closeness and acceptance when you've craved it for so long…man or wolf, I think the need is equally devastating. Van Helsing…if that's what these people have found here…if what Sarah said about only turning those who desire it was true…I'm not sure how I feel about that. Or even if we have a right to interfere."

The hunter sighed deeply as he squeezed Carl's hand hard. "I'm afraid the Order would disagree, Carl. If we don't deal with this village, someone else will come."

"But how do we 'deal' with it? These people don't want to change, they just want to be left alone."

"I don't know. There have been so many lies and half truths, I don't know what to think yet. Neither Sarah nor your Brother Chester trust us enough to give us the whole truth yet. But whether they want outside interference or not, they're going to get it. Sarah's made two mistakes so far and she's made another with us. I don't think she can afford that many. Our best chance of finding out what is really happening here may be through the beta pair."

Carl nodded, and then eased himself down, curling the arm that had supported his cheek under the pillow. He left his hand in Van Helsing's grip and both men fell silent for a long time, so long that Carl thought the hunter had fallen asleep. As sleep beckoned him as well, the friar murmured, "I don't want to be mated to a werewolf, Gabriel."

Beside him, he felt the hunter sigh and give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I don't either, Carl."

Tbc


	5. Chapter 5

Rating: PG13

Pairing: Carl/Gabriel, the beginnings of a slash relationship

Series/Sequel: The continuation of Brother Wolf

Notes: The Order puts in an appearance

Warning: Aspersions against the Church of Van Helsing's time (which I feel are merited), the ongoing relationship of Gabriel and Carl that with togetherness, deepens.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play

Feedback: To **_MagRowan, Milady Dragon, Illudrae, GlasTriskellion_**, _**TwilighttheUmbreon, and Elwyndra**_--thank you for having been so patient with this story. This story was billed as a pre-slash story and as such it was necessary to spend a great deal of time building their relationship rather than their romance. I hope that this chapter—the start of that romance--lives up to expectations.

To _**Chibi-Kaz**_, as promised here are your nummies. This chapter is for you. I promise, more is on the way.

Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

**SISTER WOLF 5**

_What makes fate sit up and take notice of this person or that? Why is one person's life relatively free of pain or deadly strife, while another's falls almost continual prey to it? It's hard to say, without dwelling in platitudes, but few can deny its truth. Some are born with the silver spoon of fortune firmly in their grasp, while others must make due with the scraps fortune casts their way. In the end, the former passes through life without having really lived it and the latter passes from life having savored and bested its fullest measure. _

_

* * *

_

When the sound of danger came, it dragged Van Helsing from the deepest depths of sleep, such as he had not had the pleasure of in a long long time. His mind didn't want to surrender the warm safety of that unconscious state, but it was his body that acted on its own, galvanizing his muscles, setting his blood racing, and thrusting him up from the warm nest he shared with Carl. He had mere seconds to react to the dark presences in the room before they fell upon him, bearing him back down to the bed. He fought them, snarling and lashing out with hand and foot, biting when he had to and taking savage pleasure in the yelp of pain. It was with his first mouthful of warm hairless flesh that he realized their attackers were not werewolves but men. Big sweaty, anxious, grimly silent men who took everything he gave and kept coming at him.

He heard Carl's voice shouting, felt the bed shake with the friar's own struggles, and he alternated between wishing Carl wouldn't fight and thus be spared any injury gained in the struggle, and wishing Carl good fortune in his own bloody toil. As it was, the fight was brief enough to ensure neither he nor his friar were badly damaged. Sheer numbers overwhelmed them and they were both dragged off the bed and bound hand and foot.

Shoved down to his knees and held by rough hands at his shoulders, Van Helsing viciously shook sweat-dampened strands of dark hair from his face and peered into the darkness, his eyes narrowing.

Their captors were only vague dark shadows, moving with suspicious assurity about the room. They spoke in curt quiet voices that neither Carl nor Van Helsing could hear the gist of, but by their voices, both were assured that they were prisoners of men who knew exactly what they were doing. Considering their situation, neither Carl nor Van Helsing were sure whether that was a good or bad thing.

When the sound of a scraping match heralded the flare of fire, Van Helsing averted his eyes to keep from being blinded. Instead, when the room became light, he looked, squinting, at the feet surrounding him, counting 10 pairs of scuffed dirty boots. Considering the small size of the room, to have so many men in one place was a miracle in itself. He took note of the slim outlines of weapons hidden in the boots, the presence of travel stains on the trousers that were tucked into the boots, and the fact that all 10 pairs of boots were identical. In fact, they looked exactly like the boots he usually wore himself.

He wasn't surprised, when he at last raised his eyes, that he recognized the men who now stood looking down at him.

"Markus," he said as he looked up at the big, grey-haired man who stood immediately before him, with large calloused hands settled on his hips, one of which bore the bloody imprints of a deep bite.

"Gabriel," Markus answered and a grin came to his pale lips as he shook his head. "When the Order sent me to find you, I just _knew_ I'd find you in an interesting spot. It's never dull where the legendary Van Helsing is."

The hunter ignored the other man's jibes; he was quite familiar with Markus, having spent the last four years of his life in training alongside the man under the hand of the Order. Markus was one of the most successful hunters the Vatican had—he followed the rules laid down by the Order and never varied, not by the slightest degree, from his sworn duty. The Handlers' holding cells within the catacombs below the Palace were teaming with the unfortunate beasts that Markus had succeeded in dragging back with him. And yet, despite his success as a hunter, Markus never lost the opportunity to remind Van Helsing that it was he, not Markus, who was the prime hunter of the Order. He seemed to take an almost superstitious delight in the odd circumstances of Van Helsing's appearance on the Palace steps, in his reputation for miraculous healing, and his prowess with any weapon. Markus was a deeply religious man, but Van Helsing had never determined if his fascination was due to the belief that Van Helsing was a fallen angel of God or of the devil.

"Why are you here?" Van Helsing asked, his eyes flitting from Markus' face to those of the other hunters, all of whom he recognized. The Order apparently had recalled and sent its entire compliment of hunters in this single strike. Van Helsing's eyes narrowed as they turned back to Markus. What had happened? Why had the Order sent hunters after he and Carl?

Markus' easy grin faded slightly as he shifted from one foot to the other. "I'm here on the Order's business, Van Helsing. I'll explain all to you, but first I'll need to check both you and Carl for fresh bite wounds."

"You think we're werewolves?" Carl gasped, his eyes flying about from one grim face to the next.

"I _know_ you've been infected," Markus corrected Carl grimly. "News travels, even in God forsaken backwoods such as these. You killed the wolf that was being shown by the circus, but then news came of the same circus showing another wolf, an exotic white wolf. The Order hasn't heard from you since you left Rome—it's not such a far leap in logic to suspect you've been tainted. A little digging and we were able to follow your steps fairly easily. It was careless of you to leave those mercenaries' bodies in that clearing. It wasn't hard to see they'd been killed by werewolves. Don't worry though, we cleaned up the mess."

Van Helsing nodded, his full lips thinning in a grimace. "If you saw the clearing, you should know there was more than one wolf in that clearing."

"We know," Markus repeated irritatingly as he moved backward, gesturing the men who held Van Helsing to raise him to his feet. "You came straight from that clearing to the inn. We followed and found the innkeeper murdered and cut into little teeny bits."

Carl gasped, shaking his head so vigorously he swayed back and forth in the hands that held him upright on his knees. "We didn't kill him! We had no part in that!"

"Of course not," Markus said easily, a small smile coming to his lips for the friar. He was as familiar with Carl as he was with Van Helsing, perhaps more so as he entertained no superstitious dread of the friar. In the past, Carl had made many weapons for Markus before he had started to specialize in weapons for Van Helsing's missions. "The innkeeper was murdered, but not by werewolves. Three horses were missing from the stables—we figured whoever killed him took the third. After that, it was a matter of tracking you to this village."

"You know about the people of this village." Van Helsing made his words a statement rather than a question; Markus made it a habit of being fully informed before he took each new step of a mission. Everything he did went strictly by the numbers with military precision. He would have ferreted out the nature of the village long before he set foot in it. "Before you deal with us..."

Markus shook his head while Van Helsing spoke, his own lips turning up in a rueful smile as Van Helsing's voice faded away in consternation.

"They must have known we were coming long before we got here. There's not a soul in the village except for you two. You would almost think they'd set you two up, though I'm not sure if you're the sacrifice or the bait. Don't worry, though, we're prepared for either case."

Carl stirred, twisting to look at the open window shrouded in a threadbare gauze curtain. The night air outside was quite still—all sounds of the revelry that had earlier filled the town were now gone as if they'd never been. He shook his head and turned back to the hunter; gone or not, the danger was still real. "If they should come back, if you have to fight them, you'll need the antidote and we don't have any more."

"Don't worry," Markus assured him firmly. "Cardinal Jinette had several doses made up from your recipe. Before we left, we all had a dose of the antidote. That should have done the trick, shouldn't it?"

It didn't occur to Van Helsing to lie, any more than it occurred to Markus to doubt him when he nodded.

When they pulled Van Helsing to his feet, Markus moved forward shrugging at Van Helsing's grim expression.

"By the book—I'll check you for bites. I'll try to be quick about it." Carefully, Markus began a cautious inspection of the hunter's body. First he ran both hands through Van Helsing's dark hair, lifting it to inspect his neck, both front and back. The hands on Van Helsing's shoulders shifted to grip his biceps, and the hunter heard Markus' hiss of breath as his fingers touched and traced the faint pink marks of the faded bite.

"This would appear to be an old bite," he murmured, for Van Helsing's ears alone. "But I know how your body heals itself—a recent bite that would still be bloody on another man would look months old on you. Tell me the truth, Gabriel; were you bitten by one of these wolves? And did you get the antidote?"

"Yes, to both questions."

Markus nodded once, and then continued his inspection, making it thorough and as impersonal as possible. He asked no further questions, though he uttered several lurid curses as his fingers traced the fading marks of the whip on Van Helsing's back. He paused briefly in his inspection to touch the old vertical scars on either side of Van Helsing's spine, and his curses switched abruptly to mutterings of Latin. When his attention moved further down and his calloused hands smoothed over Van Helsing's naked buttocks, the hunter turned his mind to other things, shutting out the touches until they were done and his dignity was respectfully clothed again.

He'd managed to distance himself from the proceedings fairly easily, but as Carl was pulled to his feet and Markus moved to strip the friar's clothing away, he found that distance much harder to maintain.

"That's not necessary," he snapped, biting his tongue as he heard the growl in his voice and saw Markus raise an eyebrow at it.

"Gabriel, the only reason we didn't kill you outright is because you had access to the cure you brought with you. Even with that, I plan to find out exactly what I'm dealing with. If you've both been infected, and there's the slightest chance the antidote didn't work..."

"Isn't it a little late to be checking that now?" Van Helsing asked, his hazel gaze dropping to the other man's wounded hand. "I recall getting a toothfull of someone during our earlier fight. I guess that was probably you."

Markus frowned as he rubbed gingerly at his bloodied hand. "You have a good set of teeth, Gabriel. You got me good."

Something in the straightforward brown eyes made Van Helsing's gaze falter then drop. "I'm sorry, Markus. I didn't know it was you."

The other hunter nodded, and then shrugged. "Eh, maybe I should have announced who we were, hmm? Might have saved us all a scrape or two. Still, we all do what we must. If it helps...it's not personal."

"I know," Van Helsing admitted, and then raised his eyes to the other hunter's. "Send the others out. We're tied; we won't give you any trouble." He maintained eye contact, even when the other hunter's eyebrows rose in surprise before the brown eyes narrowed with unspoken suspicions. When Markus nodded, only then did Van Helsing release the breath he'd been holding and dropped his gaze. He felt as if he'd exposed more than his body to these men but, though he hadn't logically thought it through at the time, he found he couldn't regret the instinctive urge to protect Carl now.

Carl's wide blue eyes looked from one man to the other with a plain and guileless combination of confusion and relief. Perhaps it was that that had prompted Markus to agree. He'd always had a soft spot for Carl, enjoying the dichotomy of his naive innocence and overweening intelligence. Carl was a bona fide genius and a genuinely good man—a rare find at any time and Markus was not a man to overlook rarities.

Van Helsing was settled in a creaking chair beside the open window where his arms were tied to the cane slats of the back. While the chair was hardly a formidable obstacle if he truly wanted to get loose, it would take several seconds to accomplish, which would give Markus more than enough time to neutralize him. In short, he was helpless to prevent what would follow; he could only watch while a faint unconscious growl rattled in his chest.

Once the other men had left, Markus smiled at Carl and shrugged. "Sorry about this Carl. I do my duty, you know that."

"Yes, I know that," Carl gulped, blinking rapidly. "Could we just get it over with?"

Nodding once, the hunter moved forward, drawing his dagger. When Carl's eyes widened and his breath caught at the sight of the blade, Markus had the decency to look embarrassed.

"Nono, Carl, this isn't for you. I can't untie your hands, but I must see your torso clearly. I'm afraid I'll have to cut your tunic off."

"Oh!" Carl gasped, then bit his lip as he nodded jerkily.

Carefully, Markus set about cutting through the thin cloth, keeping the blade well away from Carl's skin. It took very little time until the tunic fluttered away from Carl's body to pool at his feet. With his ankles tied and only a narrow width between them to allow him to remain upright, Carl swayed unsteadily as his pale skin flushed hotly beneath Markus' gaze. The hunter caught his shoulders, holding him firmly upright, ignoring the feeling of Carl shuddering beneath his calloused palms.

Once Carl was steady again, Markus set about efficiently inspecting him in the same manner as he had Van Helsing, first running his hands through the friar's blond hair, then inspecting his throat, then his shoulders. It was obvious from the start that the faded wound on Carl's shoulder was of the same type as that on Van Helsing's, so he didn't bother to deny its origin when Markus questioned it. It took all of Carl's will power not to shrink away though as the other man's hands ran over his back and then his chest. The sensation of being naked and helpless recalled his nightmarish fight with Nikko in the woods though he logically knew there was no similarity between the two men.

When Markus' hands settled at his hips, easing the loose linen trousers down, a sound of distress burst from Carl's lips even as a loud vicious snarl erupted from Van Helsing.

Markus fell back, his eyes flying from the friar who stood swaying with eyes clenched shut and skin pale as a ghost, to Van Helsing who strained forward, his hazel eyes consumed in a golden glow as he bared his teeth at Markus.

"My God," Markus gasped, crossing himself. "Gabriel?"

"_Get off him_," Van Helsing snarled. "Leave him alone. I'm the one you're looking for, not Carl."

"Gabriel?" Carl bleated, his eyes flying open as he attempted to turn and instead began to fall.

Without thinking, Markus lunged forward, catching Carl's nude body in his arms. Unprepared for the harsh intimacy, Carl cried out, struggling against his hold.

At the sound of Carl's distress, Van Helsing gave way to the dark rage that boiled within him, the rage that had been born with his first view of the squalid circus and had grown with each succeeding moment of degradation and death that followed—it burst from the confines of his flesh and bone, sundering both.

From the ruins of Van Helsing's body emerged the phoenix of his anger—the black wolf reared up on two legs, and shook his heavy glittering coat free, then turned his golden eyes upon Markus who crouched on the floor with Carl still struggling in his arms.

The soft black muzzle peeled back without a sound as long white fangs emerged in a snarl. The old wooden floor creaked as the werewolf stepped forward; lamplight caught the wolf's shadow and elongated it so that it folded over the ceiling hugely, like an enormous specter of death.

Holding Carl firmly in one arm, Markus thrust his hand into his own tunic and wrenched a blow pipe free. Raising it, he took aim at the dark demon before him and sent three darts in rapid succession into its stomach.

The werewolf howled, slapping at the darts that sank deep into his body, even as he reached for Carl, dragging him from Markus' arms.

At the touch of the smooth warm fur, Carl gasped, blue eyes flying wide open as he looked up into the monster's piercing gaze and felt the muscular body pressed hard against him.

The familiar sound of clicking metal drew Carl's attention and his gaze snapped back toward Markus to see he had risen on one knee and was taking aim with a cocked pistol.

"_No_!" Carl horrified gaze moved past the dark gun barrel to see Markus' brown eyes narrow as his finger whitened; he felt his body strain frantically against the ropes that bound him until in a burst of pain, he felt the ropes and his body break.

Markus yelled as a massive white paw with long clawed fingers swiped at him, knocking the gun from his hands and sending him flying back to crash against the closed door. His vision swam in bursting coronas within the wavering lamplight as two werewolves rose before him—one black as midnight with golden eyes, and one white as ice with blue eyes. Both sets of eyes watched him unblinking for several seconds, then the white wolf turned his attention to the other. Carefully, the long clawed fingers caught at the darts still embedded in the muscular black stomach and pulled them free, dropping them to the floor to roll drunkenly from sight beneath the bed.

The black wolf blinked, squeezing his eyes shut, as the white wolf leaned forward and lapped at the wounds left by the darts. When the white head lifted, the black wolf leaned down and gently licked the soft white muzzle.

"Gabriel, Carl," Markus gasped, shaking his head at the sight of the two monsters.

In answer, two pairs of eyes returned to him briefly with the sentience of men in their depths. Then the black wolf rubbed his head against the artic wolf, nuzzling the velvet ears, before turning away to the open window. Without hesitation, the blue-eyed wolf followed.

"No! I can't let you go!" Markus snarled, his hands moving down to his boots to pull the hidden blades from them. They made little to no sound as they emerged from their suede sheaths, but it was enough. The black wolf pushed the other wolf to the side and seized the chair laying on its side beneath the window, throwing it forcefully at Markus. The hunter yelped, covering his head with his arms as the chair crashed into the door above him sending wooden debris raining down over his head. Rolling to the side and up onto one knee, Markus raised both blades to throw them—and found he was alone in the room. At the window, the gauzy curtain fluttered, flapping crazily in the cool air currents, before settling slowly back against the sill.

Markus staggered to his feet and lurched to the window, ripping the curtain away so that he could lean far out to rake the silent street below with his eyes. There was nothing to see, no sign of the wolves nor any indication they had ever been there. With an oath, he reeled away from the window and kicked his way through the wreckage that littered the floor to yank the door open, bellowing for his men as he did so.

The streets echoed with the sound of men's voices that grew louder, and then faded.

For a moment, the night was calm and quiet again; then the faintest scratching noise came from the roof.

Stretched out over the rough wooden shingles, the two werewolves watched with keen intelligent eyes as the men below started their search. They made no effort to escape, they weren't in any danger, not yet. There was time enough to wait, and rest.

Silently, the two wolves began to groom one another with warm wet tongues, easing away pain and fear with each slow careful lick.

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

Rating: PG13

Pairing: Carl/Gabriel, the beginnings of a slash relationship

Series/Sequel: The continuation of Brother Wolf

Notes:Escape

Warning: Aspersions against the Church of Van Helsing's time (which I feel are merited), the ongoing relationship of Gabriel and Carl that with togetherness, deepens.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play

Feedback: The fast turnaround of chapters 5 and 6 I owe to some phenominal writing by _Lembas71_ and the story "**_Laeva Dei_**" Talk about inspiration! If you haven't had the pleasure of reading her work, I urge you to treat yourself!

To Chibi-Kaz, as promised here are your nummies. This chapter is for you. I promise, more is on the way.

Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

**SISTER WOLF 6**

Markus cursed with every moment spent in fruitless search for the werewolves Van Helsing and Carl had become. Too much time had passed, they had lost them. He wasn't a man who was daunted by a temporary setback, but the ease with which the two beasts had eluded him rankled. For all the respect and admiration he favored Van Helsing and Carl with, the beasts they had become were just that—beasts. They might have the cunning of trapped animals, but they were no match for thinking men. In all his years as a Hunter, he had never once wavered from that firm conviction, and he had never once been proven wrong.

Still, he hadn't survived so long by closing his eyes to any permutation that might occur in the execution of his duties—there had always been a chance that Van Helsing or Carl was indeed a werewolf and that one or the other might elude capture. He would need to expand upon that scenario in his plans now that both had proven tainted. His mission from the Order was to bring both men back, in whatever shape they were found. If that proved impossible, he had been given permission to use deadly force to secure their bodies for study. When Markus had received his orders from Jinette, he had watched the other man's eyes very carefully. He'd seen the worry in the grey eyes, and the pain evoked when Jinette gave him permission to kill Van Helsing or Carl. Plainly such an option was his last resort, but he wouldn't hesitate to use it.

The grim, silent search of the village was drawing to a close. It simply wasn't that big of a settlement. They were all armed with blow guns filled with strong sedatives but having seen the black wolf shake off the effects of three such darts, Markus had revised their armament to include pistols. The men with him were professionals; they would wait to use the pistols until there was no other choice.

When, one by one, the luckless Hunters returned to him, he ground his teeth together as he rubbed at his injured hand. He had more than the simple mission to contend with now, if the antidote didn't really work. He'd taken another dose, it had made his stomach roil unpleasantly, but beyond that he had felt no other effects. A chill had passed through him briefly as he considered the possibility that he might now be infected himself; then he pushed the thought away. Now wasn't the time to be concerning himself with that.

Looking at the silent watchful men who faced him, he considered his next move. He had never thought to be hunting Van Helsing himself. He found he was looking forward to it.

* * *

On the rooftop above the crowd of men, the two werewolves lay upon their stomachs, watching each move made with silent rapt attention. They didn't understand the strange sounds the men made to one another, but they were able to take in the meaning of the men's actions with little difficulty. 

The black wolf's head tilted to the side, his golden eyes narrowing as he watched the grey-haired man's gestures and listened to the tone and inflections of his voice. He was setting up sentries and preparing to settle for the night. Two sentries were set just beneath them, to guard the window they had escaped from. As he watched the men's careful preparations, he blinked slowly as he realized they were waiting for daylight so they could see the signs of his and the Other's flight more clearly. As he had little doubt the light of day would show the men exactly how they had escaped, it was time to be considering how they should leave the village.

The Other stirred beside him, blue eyes blinking up into his thoughtfully, before turning to look out over the roofs of the adjacent houses. He followed his pack mate's gaze with interest. It certainly wouldn't be difficult to follow the Other's suggestion, this village had been erected by werewolves for werewolves; they would make use of that.

The black wolf licked the Other's muzzle softly, and the Other's furred lip wrinkled in a smile of pleasure.

* * *

Pearson approached Markus confidently, giving his report crisply and without wordiness. 

"We've finished setting up the pickets at the designated areas. All efforts to preserve any clues missed have been made. When dawn comes, we can pack up and be ready to move within 15 minutes once a plan is determined."

His mouth shut with the sharp click of finality; he was pleased with the report and it sharp defined edges. He wasn't a man who normally spent too much time in the gray areas of life—his work habits and his temperament were more inclined toward straightforward black and white. He didn't lack imagination, as a Hunter he couldn't afford to cut himself off from possibilities. But he tended to move from point A to point B as economically and rationally as possible with the least time spent in all subpoints between.

He was familiar with Carl and Van Helsing both; he'd studied their many successful mission reports avidly though he'd often been perplexed by their strange leaps of logic. Now, the two men were his quarry. He didn't allow himself to think too deeply on his feelings concerning the turn of events—with little mental effort, he'd successfully managed to turn both men into impersonal targets to be acquired without dwelling on what would become of them after. When they were finished...when Van Helsing and Carl were safely in the Handlers' hands...that would be soon enough to consider what he had done. For now, he reserved his curiosity for just exactly _how_ they were going to accomplish the mission.

Markus noted the gleam of silent inquiry in the other Hunter's eyes with approval. Pearson was a good Hunter, one of the best. He approached the Order's business with a reassuring dedication that made him easy to work with, easy to rely upon. He knew what questions were running through Pearson's mind because they were foremost in his own.

"They're close by, I'm sure of it," he murmured as he looked about the dark silent village thoughtfully. "We've missed something, some clue. Tomorrow, in the light of day, I think we'll have better luck. After that, it's just a straight forward hunt."

"What about the other wolves?" Pearson asked, keeping his own voice just as quiet. The wolves, if by some miracle they were close enough to hear normal conversations, wouldn't be able to understand them of course, but they could understand inflection and tone. Even common street mutts could do that. It made sense to observe a little caution. "Will they try to interfere?"

Markus shrugged, his brown eyes now fixed upon the toe of his boot that scraped rough arcs in the soft dirt of the street. "We should be prepared for it. I think they must have some interest in our two wolves, of course. They infected Van Helsing and Carl, then kept them in the village, makes sense they had reasons for that, though we may never completely understand. We've all fought werewolves before; this fight shouldn't be too different."

"No, it shouldn't," Pearson agreed firmly. "When we secure the targets, we'll return to Rome?"

"Yes. We'll leave the village as is for now; it wouldn't do to scatter the others prematurely. Later, there will be time to return and stamp them out."

"Of course," Pearson agreed. Nodding his goodnights, he turned and left Markus to his thoughts.

* * *

The white wolf jumped lightly from building to building, following his pack mate's footsteps with ease. After each change of position, they paused, watching and listening to the men beneath. By now, they were in the approximate center of the village--most of the hunters had garrisoned themselves in a tall building that apparently served as the village's school house, though judging by the newness of the wood coupled with the musty smell of dust, it didn't get much use. 

None of the windows were paned, it was a simple thing for the black wolf to lower himself from the roof, his claws digging into the soft yellow wood as he climbed, headfirst, down the side of the building until his eyes were level with the top of the open window and he could look inside easily. He watched with narrowed gaze, and listened to the sound and shape of the words, familiarizing himself with meanings as they became apparent in context.

Above, the white wolf waited patiently, his blue eyes keeping constant vigil of the streets below. His human was very much to the fore, and he found as voices and words rose up to him, he was able to get the gist of much of what was being said.

These men weren't fools; they were familiar with his and his pack mate's humans and they were well versed in hunting solitary werewolves. It appeared, though, that they were not so well versed in hunting wolves whose integration with their humans were so complete.

Hazy memories came to the forefront of the white wolf's mind, and he considered them thoughtfully. He remembered a journey to a cold land that was at the same time beautiful and horrifying. There had been werewolves there as well; he could feel a kinship with them now even as he felt the dull acceptance of the half-lives they led. More animal than human, with their human thoughts and memories so submerged that the man or woman inside was little more than a prisoner, the wolves had been easy targets for the hunters that followed them. They simply didn't understand how humans thought, didn't recognize when they were being led into traps nor how they were being used for purposes other than their own. They were little better than savage dogs.

The wolf's blue eyes blinked and a soft snarl lifted his lip. Below him, the black wolf looked up from the window to meet his gaze and he made a soft _chuffing_ noise of explanation. The golden eyes blinked as a long pink tongue emerged to lick the black muzzle in a gesture of sympathy and reassurance. Once, the black wolf had been as trapped and harried as the other wolves of Transylvania. But he was unique; he had retained enough of his human during the change to have a purpose—to free himself.

Now, he was learning at an incredibly fast rate. He kept his human close, savoring the connection and the rich insights it brought them both. Once again, he lowered his gaze to the window, and resumed his education.

Approximately half an hour passed before the black wolf returned to the roof and shared his knowledge with the Other. They would need to be careful, and they would need to prepare before leaving the village behind.

Their first stop was at one of the dark houses along a side street; carefully, they entered the building. By scent, they identified it as belonging to the red-headed man who had met their humans when they first entered the village. Moving silently through the shadows, they felt human enjoyment as they looted the house of clothing, boots, and money. A certain amount of cheek prompted them to leave their supplies on top of the school house.

Their next foray was more dangerous. They waited until the night was darkest, then, carrying a folded blanket apiece in their jaws, both descended the side of the school to the open window and entered it. All around them, men lay upon the empty dusty floor on bedrolls in a light sleep, their senses fully open to any hint of danger or the slightest touch of evil. They never stirred, though, as the werewolves moved among them, easing weapons free of holsters and sheaths until they had collected an impressive assortment.

Quietly rolling the weapons in the blankets, they returned to the window. After the white wolf withdrew, the dark wolf hesitated then turned back. With a thoughtful gleam in his golden eyes, he positioned himself and allowed a sparkling stream of urine to splash down upon the floor, leaving a large musky puddle upon the yellow wood. Both the wolf and his human derived a great deal of satisfaction from the act.

* * *

Markus rolled sleeplessly over the bed he'd chosen for himself, finally throwing himself onto his back in frustration. He'd selected for himself the very room they'd found Van Helsing and Carl in; he admitted to himself he'd done so in the hopes that it would inspire him as to his next course of action. He wasn't a fool. He knew that with every passing hour, his quarry was getting further and further out of range and it galled him that he had no idea how to follow. 

Angrily, he scrubbed at his face with both hands, wincing as the bite wound in his palm stretched and pulled painfully. He'd had it bound up before turning in, now in a fit of peke, he ripped the gauze off to expose the wound to the dim lamplight. Hesitantly he touched it, fingering the wound's edges as he thought of the man who had inflicted it upon him. He allowed his mind to dwell on the memory, to remember the shock he felt when the intimate wetness of Van Helsing's mouth closed over his hand, then the sudden sharp pain of the bite. He'd been careless.

Markus blinked, frowning at the wound, and allowed himself to admit he'd been more than careless. He had allowed himself to be in awe like the rawest addlepated recruit; he'd forgotten for the barest instant that he was the Hunter and Carl and Van Helsing were his prey. He'd certainly paid for his lapse. He didn't fool himself into thinking he wouldn't share the same fate as his quarry when they returned to Rome. The only difference would be that while Van Helsing would vehemently deny the Order had the right to cage them, Markus would not. He was a Hunter before he was a man; he'd made that decision a long time ago.

Van Helsing, on the other hand, seemed to revel in always and forever being a man first. He allowed passion to guide him and as a result he was impossible to predict. He'd certainly floored Markus in his defense of the friar.

He remembered again the feeling of Carl's nude squirming body, warm and supple in his arms and the look of feral rage in Van Helsing's eyes. Markus' eyes narrowed as he pursed his lips in a soundless whistle as realization struck like a heavy weight. It was Van Helsing's passion that had triggered the change. He'd stood within inches of Van Helsing, explored every inch of his body and found it to be completely human with not a sign of the wolf except for the faded bite. He wasn't a helpless victim in the throws of a rising moon—he'd chosen the wolf, chosen Carl.

Markus threw himself from the bed, backing away from it as he considered the rumpled linens and pad, his steepled hands pressed to his bottom lip, tapping as the chain of tenuous logic continued to play out. They'd been together...true, both were reasonably clothed, Carl had been wearing both trousers and shirt. But they'd been together. Just happenstance? Or had Van Helsing and his friar made the leap from partners to lovers? It wouldn't be the first time men who shared a life-and-death bond should carry it that one step further. Carl had been protecting Van Helsing with his inventions for years; it wasn't a far step to see the Hunter doing the same in his own passionate unpredictable way. He never did what you would expect...never took the common road...he was as apt to tell you black was white and down was up...

Markus brown eyes grew wide as his dark pupils expanded to almost completely occlude their caramel color—then in the next instant he flung himself at the window, rolling over awkwardly against the sill so that he lay on his back and looked _up_, at the building rather than down at the street.

**_Damn it!_** There they were, plain as the nose on his face! Claw marks, leading up to the roof. The damned wolves had climbed the vertical side of the house like cats would scurry up a tree!

He twisted again, to lean on his hands against the sill as his eyes flew to the adjoining rooftops and then cursed luridly as he took in how close the roofs were--extending ridiculously far out over the street, they made an easy road for anyone who chose to take it.

He strained his eyes against the darkness of the night, cursing vulgarly as he raked adjoining roofs for any sign of movement. Toolatetoolate_toolate_...it _had_ to be too late... He forced himself further out of the window, leaning so far out to the right he was in danger of falling as he peered around the edge of the building to scan the southern skyline. He couldn't see all the roofs from his lower vantage point—he had to settle for those houses that followed the downward slope of the hills Wellys rested upon. Seconds passed agonizingly, and then he caught his breath in a harsh staccato gasp as movement along the distant tree line caught his attention. A tall dark shadow was rising up to stand erect against the grey clouds.

"_Gabriel_!" Markus wasn't aware he had shouted the name aloud until he saw the dark shape hesitate then turn back to face him across the expanse of roofs. He could see him...so close, so close he could almost touch him. He willed the wolf to him, the wound in his hand, braced against the harsh gritty wood of the sill, was wet with blood, blood they now shared. He fixed the feeling of it in his mind, like a crimson rope that bound the other to him. "_Gabriel_!"

He saw the wolf take a step, then two, then drop from sight into the woods beyond.

His shout of thwarted rage rang out over the dark still village like an alarm bell.

* * *

The two wolves held the blanket bundles in their jaws as their long limbs stretched out in ground-eating strides. Only a horse at full gallop would be able to keep up with the pace they could set, so their last act before leaving the village had been to check the barn that housed the hunters' horses. Regrettably, their fellow hunters had taken the precaution of posting several guards who were wide awake and much too watchful for the two wolves to approach. 

They'd left the horses behind with ill grace, moving over the rooftops again toward the woods and freedom. The last thing either expected was to hear a voice shouting across the rooftops. The black wolf had stopped and turned, his dark moist nose rising to scent the cool night air. He recognized Markus immediately, the memory of the man curled about his scent, bringing with it the coppery taste of blood. The white wolf watched the Other's golden eyes narrow as a series of soft _chiffs_ escaped his parted jaws; his own thoughtful blue gaze had turned as well to the man leaning out of the window as he too scented blood. There was a blood tie there, tenuous and fragile, but it held the dark wolf still for several seconds.

The white wolf turned, moving invisibly against the grey sky. As he reached the roof's edge at the forest line, he turned back and signaled the Other with a short quiet bark.

Without hesitation, as if the ties that had temporarily bound him were abruptly severed, the black wolf followed his pack mate into the leafy darkness.

The cry of rage that followed them was only so much noise as the black wolf willingly followed the Other's lead.

* * *

Their journey through the woods passed quickly enough, slowed down only slightly whenever they left the forest floor for the trees or leaped along the scattered boulders for a solid mile. They did everything they could to confuse their trail with the savvy of the wiliest fox. The white wolf in particular derived a great deal of enjoyment from their efforts, making their confused looping course seem almost like a game. The larger black wolf went along with good grace, frequently nipping and then licking the Other who squeezed his eyes shut in enjoyment with the attention. When the black wolf rubbed his larger muscular body hard against the soft cool fur of the artic wolf, rubbing his scent well into the white strands, the Other panted and leaned against his pack mate, rubbing his head and neck hard against the black's. This would carry on for several moments, and then they would rouse and continue their run. 

The night was drawing to a close; they forsook attempting to confuse the trail and settled on a dead run, leaping over intervening boulders and small muddy streams and threading through the close press of trees in a supple weaving motion that never slackened the pace.

They broke out of the trees as first light touched the leafy canopy, emerging into the dark deserted yard of the inn. For some moments they stood, facing one another, jaws agape as they panted for breath with gazes locked. The black wolf made a small whining noise and the white answered with the same, rubbing his head hard against the Other's jaw. They could feel the humans move to the fore, not demanding nor rushed, just a quiet still presence.

Slowly, they sank down to the ground, their heads coming forward until their foreheads rested against the cool glossy fur covering muscular shoulders. When the sun's rays pierced the canopy and touched the ground, gilding their fur with sparkling light, they sighed and seemed to collapse upon each other, the wolf shearing away as the humans came to the fore.

Carl shuddered and caught a sob in the back of throat as the loss of the wolf signaled the loss of the sheer joy that had held him in thrall. Against his shoulder, Van Helsing stirred, his arms coming up to pull Carl hard into his chest.

The friar stirred, his own arms encircling the other man as he swallowed hard before whispering, "Van Helsing?"

"Mmm?"

"We're naked again."

"Shhhh. It doesn't matter, Carl."

Carl nodded, and buried his face into Van Helsing's neck, breathing in his scent as deeply into his lungs as possible. A ghostly tendril of the joy he had felt so strongly before returned as he felt the Hunter do the same.

* * *

"How much of it do you remember?" Carl asked as he pulled on his purloined shirt, smoothing it down with satisfaction. 

Van Helsing shrugged, pausing in the process of lacing his boots to consider. "Most of it, I think. Something's changed...it's not as if it were someone else...more as if I was there but simply acting without conscious thought."

The friar nodded thoughtfully as he picked up his own boots and moved to seat himself on the low wall encircling the kitchen's garden, settling himself close beside the hunter.

"That's very like it," he admitted. "I know they...we...were thinking constructively of course..." he gestured at the weapons lying in piles on the blankets at their feet. "I had no idea werewolves were capable of this type of planning, though."

Van Helsing shook his head firmly. "They're not. At least not the ones I've fought in the past. These...they're using our intelligence; they're not animals, in any sense of the word."

Carl looked up then, to meet Van Helsing's hazel eyes, and a small smile curved his lips.

"Is this what Sarah meant, when she talked about giving oneself to the wolf?"

"I think so," the hunter admitted slowly, a light in his eyes as he held Carl's. "I think I also understand better what she meant when she said they chose those who will succeed. Those who will become more with the blending rather than less."

"More," Carl murmured, his gaze falling to move over the hunter's body. "I...what...kind of relationship do you think...they had?"

Van Helsing shook his head as he reached out to catch and hold one of Carl's hands. "I don't know Carl. Something very like the one we've always had...but freer. A little..._more_..."

Carl swallowed as he nodded, his fingers tightening shyly over Van Helsing's. "You sound as if you approve..."

The hunter sighed, then shrugged. "It's not what I'm used to. I don't know what to make of it yet. At some point, we'll need to find a cure, but in the meantime..."

"It's not wrong is it? Sinful?"

"No."

The friar's blue eyes rose to meet Van Helsing's with a mute plea for assurance. "You're sure? It's not unnatural or wrong?"

Van Helsing sighed as a fond smile touched his lips. "Carl...what they felt when they were together...it was playful and caring. No, I don't think it's wrong or unnatural. I think it was, perhaps, the truest form of love possible."

"Love?" Carl breathed the word, tasting it on his tongue, feeling it uncurl within his chest to send tendrils of warmth through his body. He considered the sensation as one would an unknown flavor or scent, allowing it to gradually become a part of him until he could identify it as a sense of unadulterated delight like he had never experienced before.

"Ohhh." He shivered, and his smile became a pleased grin.

Van Helsing snorted, leaning over to gently shove his shoulder into the friar's, rocking them both on their perch. "I think it's alright to just let it be, Carl. What they shared, it's over and it did no harm."

Carl nodded, slowly, then murmured, "Until the next time?"

Van Helsing shrugged, his playful mood evaporating as his hazel eyes rose to take in the deserted yard thoughtfully, feeling its stillness sink into his skin. "Nightfall doesn't seem to force a change any longer, so we have some control. Enough to allow us to function. In the meanwhile, we had best not waste the effort they went to for us. There should be two more horses in the barn, hopefully. We'll take them and set out."

With this said, the hunter rose to his feet. Carl hastily stamped his feet into his boots, tying them up haphazardly before jumping up to follow.

"Where are we setting out to? Are we going to leave Sarah and the villagers behind? And what about the Order?"

Carl almost ran into Van Helsing as his broad strides slowed, then stopped. For a moment, he stood with head bowed, his eyes narrowed in thought. Then they closed as he shook his head.

"I don't know what to do about Sarah and the village. Maybe, with time... For now, I'm more concerned about the Order sending any more hunters after us. Markus won't give up...he never gives up until he gets what he's after, or the Order recalls him. We need to contact the Order...contact Jinette. If we can convince him, he'll call Markus back."

"Oh, yes, that makes sense. Though I think convincing his Grace may not be possible from a distance."

Van Helsing's full lips thinned as he grimly shrugged; easily, he caught one of Carl's shoulders and squeezed it tightly. "Then we'll just have to stretch that miracle brain of yours until it comes up with something. You do the thinking while I work to keep us out of the Order's hands in the meantime. Agreed?"

Drawing a deep breath, Carl straightened his shoulders resolutely. "Agreed."

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

Rating: PG13

Pairing: Carl/Gabriel, the beginnings of a slash relationship

Series/Sequel: The continuation of Brother Wolf

Notes: Van Helsing and Carl are on the run, and the Order is not far behind. We're coming to the end of Sister Wolf--probably within the next three chapters!

Warning: Aspersions against the Church of Van Helsing's time (which I feel are merited), the ongoing relationship of Gabriel and Carl that with togetherness, deepens.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play

Feedback: This one came fairly easily, I was surprised! I hope that doesn't mean that it sucks! To **_MagRowan, Milady Dragon (you're right, friends would do this, but only the best of friends which is a type of love in itself), Illudrae, GlasTriskellion_**, **_Renegade Ranger, and Elwyndra_**—Lord you people are so good for my writer's muse! Your insights and questions work wonders on this story! I am more grateful than I can say to all of you who take the time (and I know how hard it is!) to review, I think the plot twists that result surprise even me!

To Chibi-Kaz, my beta, thank you so much for your words of wisdom and solid common sense!

Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

**SISTER WOLF 7**

Their horses raced over the green bracken-strewn forest trails with ears back, manes and tails flying; Carl continuously looked over his shoulder expecting to see the dark figures of the men hunting them grimly following with weapons drawn.

Before they had set out, Van Helsing had assured him that Markus would eventually follow—maybe sooner, maybe later, but their attempts to throw him off the track wouldn't buy more than a few hours at best. Carl had wanted to argue, but looking at the forbidding hunter he found he couldn't. Markus wasn't Van Helsing. Neither empathy nor past friendships would stop him from following and as a hunter with many years experience, it was foolish to assume he could be stalled for long by any measure. The thought of his unrelenting, inexorable pursuit lifted the hair on Carl's body every time he thought of it. The friar had spent two decades of his life working within the Order, had seen the lengths to which they went to track and conquer evil…and now that power was after them. His mind summoned images of the Order's holding cages—5-foot square, gouged roughly out of the native stone beneath the Palace and barred with heavy black iron rods which always seemed flecked with red rust from the perpetual damp. They would be consigned to these cells, perhaps for the rest of their lives, if the Order caught them.

If they were caught?

Carl's hands tightened on his reins as he urged more speed out of his mount.

_When_.

They had to reach Jinette first, had to change his mind while they were still free men. Of course, they certainly couldn't do that by telling him they weren't tainted with lycanthropy. Not any longer!

He was pulled from his morbid musings as it dawned on Carl that they were slowing—Van Helsing had been in the lead for the last hour, now he was slowing his mount, easing it down to a steady trot. Carl blinked, frowning. Surely they needed to keep up all speed, not loiter about waiting for pursuit?

"The horses need a rest," the hunter said as Carl drew up even with him. "We'll stop when we find water and allow them to drink and eat."

"We're almost back to our original camp site, where we planned to trap Devon and the Other One. We should find your weapons there," Carl reminded the hunter, jiggling impatiently in his saddle.

Van Helsing only nodded; his mind and eyes were on other things. He had been keeping a constant watch for signs of werewolves; the fact that he hadn't seen any thus far was making him more wary, not less. It didn't seem likely that Sarah would give up so easily. Still, with the presence of the Order in their village, it was possible she had larger things to worry about than Carl and he.

A thought roused him from his musings and he looked up at Carl whose impatience had mercifully been distracted by the green canopy above them.

"What are you doing?" he asked, eyebrows drawn down in a frown of puzzlement.

"I'm waiting for the birds," Carl said shortly, his grim gaze never wavering from his aerial scrutiny.

"The birds…," Van Helsing repeated carefully, eyeing his friend as if he would leap from the saddle foaming at the mouth and barking mad at any second. Carl ignored him and continued his vigil; Van Helsing caught the friar's reins, jiggling them and Carl's hands to catch his attention.

"If you could leave off bird watching for a moment," he suggested as the friar darted a distinctly irritated look at him. "I'm concerned about Nikko."

"'**_Concerned'_**?" Carl barked, as his eyes dropped like a stone to fix upon the hunter with such outraged skepticism that Van Helsing actually felt guilty.

"Alright, concerned was the wrong word. How about curious instead? He was in the village with us, but Markus found only you and I."

Carl's mouth quirked in a sardonic grimace as he shrugged. "Maybe the werewolves decided to make him one of their own. The man _is_ an animal, after all."

"Carl."

A huff of air passed through Carl's lips as he wriggled in the saddle. "Alright, fine. Not a werewolf then. Too bad—he's one wolf I wouldn't mind shooting. So…do you think they killed him and took his body?"

"It's a possibility," the hunter admitted carefully, unwilling to accept so obvious a solution too easily.

The friar was dealing with so many things that he was hardly equipped to even conceive of—separation from the all-powerful church, the prospect of being one of the monsters the Order so vilified and being hunted by that Order. He was a man of God within his heart, still, but his anger at his changed status in the eyes of the rest of the world was making him distracted and bitter.

"And what about Brother Chester? Would he allow the only other full human in the village to be killed?"

Another puff of air blew out from Carl's pursed lips, but this time his eyes didn't meet Van Helsing's. There was a definite guilty look in the blue gaze now that made the hunter want to jostle the answer from his friend.

Aware of the other man's waiting gaze, Carl sighed and shook his head. "No…he probably wouldn't. No matter how odious Nikko is, how detestable, how lower than roach droppings he might be… He's still one of God's creatures, and deserving of mercy."

"Ahh," Van Helsing nodded, fighting the smile that tugged at his mouth. They rode quietly for several seconds, then, "That's very…Christian of you, Carl."

"Yes it is, isn't it," Carl muttered, though he didn't sound as if he were particularly proud of it. Rousing himself from his funk with a sigh, he turned his eyes and attention back to the hunter. "So… Nikko escaped before the other hunters came. Is that what you're thinking?"

"Yes. Then, or during the confusion created while the werewolves escaped. He might even have been helped to escape by the good Brother."

"That's possible, of course," Carl admitted. "But surely Brother Chester would have realized who the hunters were. He'd realize Nikko was safer staying in the village and being found by the hunters than he would be wandering the woods with werewolves about."

"Good point. So we can look forward to Nikko being added back into the mix, one way or the other." Van Helsing sighed, and then snorted. "If he's able, he'll no doubt hotfoot it to the nearest arm of the Inquisition with what he knows."

Carl moaned as he closed his eyes, shutting out the grimly smiling hunter, the never-ending woods full of crapping birds, and the rhythmic sway of the saddle that was wearing an impressive set of saddle sores into his hind parts. Within the comforting darkness behind his own eyelids, he made a mental promise to himself: If he ever got back to his lab table, he would rig a harness that would strap him firmly to it, one that couldn't be opened by _anyone_. He'd eat, bathe, and sleep there for the rest of his life, gladly! Just so long as his days of going on missions were definitely, _definitely_ over!

* * *

Markus cursed softly to himself as he eyed the puddle of urine on the floor and the half circle of embarrassed men arrayed behind it. It struck the Hunter that he had never been in this position, never even thought about being in this position. Death, pain, loss…he was prepared for them all in his role as a Hunter of the Order. But to have one's weapons stolen while one slept…with a pool of piss left to mock them…. He closed his eyes, briefly, and sighed. Van Helsing...

"So, how many weapons do we have left? They didn't get them _all_, surely?"

"Nono," Pearson assured him, hurriedly. "They got several pistols…er, six or seven, I think…."

"You think? Which one is it? There are only 14 of us to start with! Certainly you can tell if half of us are unarmed and half are not?" The last was all but shouted; Markus reined in his temper and took a steadying breath.

"Seven," Pearson amended with a sulky air. "They also took 4 daggers, two bows…."

"Any partridges?" Markus huffed, and then waved his hand at the other man's startled confusion. "Never mind. Alright, make sure the weapons we have are in good working order. We still have all the blow guns and darts?"

"Yes."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the sulky tone of his lieutenant; instead he gentled his questions slightly. "Well, those aren't really an issue anyway, I suppose. I put three into Van Helsing with no effect."

Pearson roused from his funk with a startled look. "Three antidote darts?"

"No, unfortunately," Markus said grimly. "Three high-potency sedative darts. Of course, they're weren't darts made by Carl, so there's no telling what they were originally intended for…probably something cute and fluffy and a quarter the size and weight of a male werewolf."

A muffled snort from Pearson reached his ears and Markus was grateful for it. Turning away from his men, he strode from the room, already lost in thought. As he emerged from the schoolhouse, he cast his eyes upward at the building's side, and easily spotted the nicks and gouges in the new wood that marked the werewolf's passage. It really was remarkable. And not something he would have expected, again. If he were honest with himself, he had been caught flatfooted way too often in this mission. True, his quarry were the best the Order had to field, so he could expect to have set backs. Still, it injured his pride to not be capable of a better show than this.

Squinting, he raised his eyes from building to the dawning sky above and the red sun rising within it. He'd decided against pursuing the two fugitives into the darkness—if it had been just them, he would have. But he wouldn't take a troop of men into the woods at night when those woods were seething with werewolves. At least he hadn't made that mistake. Now, Van Helsing and his friar were several hours ahead. Where would they go?

Lost in thought, Markus paced through the village to the edge of the forest where Van Helsing and Carl had entered. Of course, there were no signs of their entry. He fully expected the trail to be hopelessly muddled and twisted. They would make him work and sweat blood for every inch he gained on them. His only advantage was his experience as a Hunter in anticipating their movements.

So, where would he go if he were them?

Markus lifted his hand to touch and caress one of the tall forest giants before him, allowing the rough cool bark to fill his palm. It was cold in the shadows beneath the early dawn canopy. Everything was curled up tight, sleeping, waiting for the sun to warm and wake the earth. It would be heavy wet slogging through the dark forest. True, the wolf form would make it easier; they would be able to travel more quickly than a man could make the same journey. But Markus suspected the wolf couldn't remain in control forever. Sooner or later, the men within would be set free to resurface. When they did, they would be tired, naked, and hungry. In such a state, they would be sacrificing all the advantages they had gained, even with their head start.

Van Helsing wouldn't make that mistake. How, then, would he retain his advantage?

His only break thus far was in catching them entering the southern edge of the forest. That meant they were making for the inn first. There, they could gather some food, and clothing probably. There had been horses there, two of them. When he'd first seen them, Markus had been tempted to set them loose, but had decided at the last moment to leave them in their stalls. When they finished their business in the village, he thought there was a chance they would incur casualties, loose some of the horses. At the very least, they would need mounts for their prisoners. He had planned to return to the inn to collect the two horses later. Van Helsing would have them now, which would give him the advantage again, but only on a limited basis. Where would they go from there? How would they retain that advantage?

Markus looked up at the sky once again, brooding. Idly, he placed the direction the hunter had taken as south. A suggestion niggled at his brain and he automatically welcomed it into his consciousness. He and the other Hunters had entered the village from the south only yesterday. Their journey to reach it had been a hard slog with the constant threat of werewolf attack; they were tired and no one was looking forward to what had to be done. All around them were trees, endless trees. Their only break had been...

A slow smile came to Markus' mouth and he patted the tree before him fondly. He knew the answer to Van Helsing's riddle, now.

* * *

They were nearing the site of their original trap, and Carl wasn't looking forward to it. In the deceptively still clearing they had been set upon by the circus folk and Van Helsing had been poisoned. Then, they were attacked by werewolves and infected with lycanthropy. Later they had been set upon yet again, this time by wolves in the shape of Nikko's mercenaries. He could still feel the man's thick calloused fingers on his skin. Carl hugged himself roughly as he allowed his mind to continue the litany of bad luck this particular clearing had brought them. He'd fought the Alpha wolf, Sarah, here and come to his senses surrounded by mutilated bodies, compliments of the werewolves.

The clearing had never brought them anything but bad luck, and they couldn't seem to stop returning to it.

Van Helsing was aware of the friar's morose musings, he could easily figure out what Carl was thinking. With luck, this would be the last time they came to this place. If they could reclaim his weapons, it would give them a huge advantage. True, they weren't unarmed, thanks to their wolves' collection efforts; and he didn't automatically dismiss the weapons created by the other inventors of the Order like Carl did. They were good solid items and served well. But he had a memory, a little foggy but definite, of Markus pumping three darts into him and while they made him a little lightheaded, they hadn't dropped him. He wasn't sure why, but he would feel more comfortable with his own weapons that he knew would work. Shifting in his saddle, he looked to the silent man at his side.

"Carl?"

"Mmm? What?"

"Why didn't the darts Markus used on me work?"

The friar snorted, his mouth curling up in a smug sneer. "Rabbits," he said with another nasal snort.

"Rabbits?" the hunter barked, one dark brow rising in confusion. "What does that mean?"

A titter with an edge of hysteria escaped Carl as he rocked slightly in the saddle. "Normally, I replenish the store of darts used by all the hunters. Since I'm here with you, I'd imagine that job fell to Brother Sebastion. He tests _his_ sedatives on rabbits. I think it makes him feel like a hunter, going out into the garden to spend the day with a blow gun plugging the poor creatures willy nilly."

Van Helsing rolled his eyes as he straightened in the saddle, shaking his head as he heard Carl snort yet again.

* * *

The hunter and friar reached the clearing a few moments later and entered it with a care born of grim experience. Nothing jumped out at them and the grisly of their last visit was gone, thanks to Markus. He had done a good job, there wasn't the slightest sign of the almost ceaseless carnage the clearing had been witness to over the past week. A small breeze whistled and whirled about them; Van Helsing's eyes narrowed as it brought the scent of freshly-turned earth to his nostrils. It appeared the evidence of the slaughter that had taken place in the clearing was still there, nicely buried and covered over.

"Can we get this over with?" Carl asked brusquely. "It's this way."

Setting his heels gently to his horse's sides, he urged his mount forward at a careful walk through the open area. He could hear the crunch of leaves and breaking bracken behind him as Van Helsing followed and drew comfort from the man's presence. Carl wasn't a coward, but he wasn't a gung ho fool either. He was a scientist, not a wannabe hunter like Sebastion. The sooner he got back to his lab the better, but in the meantime he'd gladly hang onto Van Helsing's coat tails and keep well out of the way of danger.

When they entered the trees on the edge of the clearing, he closed his eyes against the familiar sight. He could feel those fingers again, taste the rancidness of Nikko's mouth, and the thick cloying foulness of his blood...

"Carl!" Van Helsing's fingers bit painfully into Carl's shoulder and the startled friar's blue eyes opened wide. "Are you ill?"

Swallowing sharply, Carl shook his head, and then shrugged. "I'm not sure," he said softly. "Let me think about it." Carefully, he set his heels to his horse again, edging it to the side and away from Van Helsing so the hunter's hand fell away from him. "Your weapons...I buried them over there."

Van Helsing's sharp gaze lingered on Carl for several seconds before he turned to the matter of retrieving his things. Carl breathed a sigh of relief as the hunter's preoccupation afforded him several moments of privacy to collect himself. He was alright...he had taken care of the matter...taken care of himself. Wherever Nikko might be now, he wasn't in Carl's face any longer and that was all that mattered. Nikko was no rabbit fattened on garden cabbages, and Carl had settled with him in short order. He tried to picture Brother Sebastion in the same position, but his mind refused to further horrify him with the image of the rotund Brother in the nude. For the small miracle, he felt a profound gratitude.

Van Helsing was on is knees now, sweeping away the thin layer of dead leaves and dirt, a surprised grunt escaping him as he uncovered his coat.

"I wrapped the weapons in it. I...I didn't want to leave it with Nikko. He didn't deserve to wear it."

The hunter paused, his fingers touching the familiar creased leather as a smile played about his lips with the friar's compliment. Looking up, he shared the smile with his friend. "Thank you, Carl."

"You're welcome," Carl replied automatically, then, looking into the shining kind depths of Van Helsing's hazel eyes, he blinked and felt a smile touch his own lips. "You're very welcome," he said, this time meaning it.

The coat was protected from the raw earth by a blanket of leaves both over and under it; the friar had been remarkably thorough despite the situation he'd been in. Inside its folds, Van Helsing found his crossbow, blow gun and darts (made by Carl himself), tojos, and all the other tools of his trade. At the very bottom, he found his hat, much folded and flattened. His snort of amusement widened Carl's smile and lightened the blue eyes. It took a few moments to set the weapons to right. When he slid on his coat and pulled the hat low over his eyes, it felt as if a part of him that had been missing had returned.

Carl nodded, plainly pleased. "Now you look like the Van Helsing I remember."

"It's good to be back," Van Helsing admitted.

"So," Carl said briskly, squirming in his saddle to settle in a more comfortable spot, "where do we go now?"

The hunter made his way to his horse as he spoke, checking that his weapons were tied firmly to the saddle. "There's only one way that we can travel unhindered to eventually enter Rome and then the Vatican itself."

He swung up into the saddle before turning with a grin for his bemused friend.

"We're going to join the circus, Carl."

Tbc.


	8. Chapter 8

Rating: PG13

Pairing: Carl/Gabriel, the beginnings of a slash relationship

Series/Sequel: The continuation of Brother Wolf

Notes: A checkin on all parties and Carl and Van Helsing find the circus

Warning: Aspersions against the Church of Van Helsing's time (which I feel are merited), the ongoing relationship of Gabriel and Carl that with togetherness, deepens.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play

Feedback: This one came fairly easily, I was surprised! I hope that doesn't mean that it sucks! To **_MagRowan, Milady Dragon, Illudrae, GlasTriskellion_**, **_Renegade Ranger, Moonlup, and Elwyndra_**—thank you for your reviews! With I hope you'll enjoy this new chapter!

To Chibi-Kaz, my beta, thank you so much for your words of wisdom and insight!

Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

**SISTER WOLF 8**

Cardinal Jinette paced back and forth over the length of his office, his head bowed, with hands folded behind his back. His mind was much engaged these days with absent faces and he found it hard to shake their ghostly vigil.

He'd made a mistake, that much was plain. And unlike mistakes made by others that hurt only themselves, his would hurt many, some of whom were dear to him.

He had replayed his decisions of the last three weeks over and over within his mind—sending Van Helsing back to his mission so soon after he'd inexplicably returned leaving things only half done. He'd also sent Carl with the hunter, though by the friar's own admission he was no field man and would never wish to be. In both cases, he'd paid more attention to the mission than the men who would perform it—a deadly mistake.

True, he'd set 'Eyes' upon the pair—a combination of natural and supernatural means that kept him apprised of the pair's movements and the obstacles they faced. There were times when the remoteness of a mission prevented a hunter from returning adequate reports about his whereabouts and actions, this was to be expected. And the reports of the Eyes had to be given due consideration and appropriate credence. But, combining Van Helsing's seeming distraction and the lack of word from him with the grim nature of the reports coming from the Eyes….

Perhaps he'd been hasty to send Hunters after them. He'd done his best to ensure it ended well by putting Markus in charge; while Markus was inclined to be a bit pedantic, he would follow Jinette's orders implicitly.

No…try as he might, he couldn't fault the decision to send Markus. His unease rested with his final order…admission…to the grey haired hunter's safety—he had given approval to use deadly force. He should never have done that.

He'd backed Van Helsing into a corner and it was his fault that the hunter had taken the only way out that seemed possible to him. The Eyes had been most explicit, gleefully so, as they recounted the hunter's turning to the dark side of his nature. The Left Hand of God had turned from his Lord…and the cause of that defection rested solely upon Jinette's head.

He'd once castigated Van Helsing, wishing him a week in hell for breaking the Rose Window. He wondered how many years he would receive in hell for sundering God's Left Hand?

* * *

Markus rode slowly and carefully into the Inn's yard, his eyes narrowing as he peered through the bands of dust that striped the sunlit air to the ground beyond. The signs of Van Helsing's and his friar's presence were plain to see, they'd made no attempt to cover their tracks in any way. No reason why they should, he thought; they knew he'd be coming soon enough.

Pearson rode to the open stable doors; he now twisted about in his saddle to shout the affirmation that the two horses they had left inside were indeed gone.

Markus waved a gloved hand absently; nudging his horse with his knees so that it ambled forward in a slow walk, he kept his eyes on the ground. A flat area, punctuated with bulky and slim outlines in the soft dirt showed him where they had unwrapped their stolen weapons. A set of footprints, both shod and unshod, gave him a picture of the two men sitting on the garden wall as they finished dressing. So, they were fully dressed, armed, and on horseback. A grim smile came to Markus' mouth—it seemed Van Helsing was not one to remain at a disadvantage for long. No doubt the inn had supplied them with food as well.

His eyes rose now to the late morning sky and scanned it thoughtfully. No sign of life, anywhere, not even the ubiquitous birds that dogged their steps. He wondered where they'd gone; the stillness of the yard made the hair on his arms raise and his gloved fingers plucked thoughtfully at the crossbow that rode, cocked, with him. He could feel the leather of his glove rub lightly against the bandages wrapping his hand. Tentatively, he flexed the hand, wincing as it pulled but finding, overall, that the wound wasn't as painful as he might have supposed. He'd examined it closely for infection that morning and found, on the contrary, that it seemed to be healing quite nicely. If he didn't know better, he would have assumed he'd gotten it days ago instead of only hours past. The sight of the healthy flesh forming served to worry him far more than infection would have. It suggested…things. _Had_ Van Helsing lied to him about the antidote working? Apparently so, to some degree. But the wolves didn't act like the animals he was used to, they seemed more controlled, almost thinking.

He blinked, squinting against the bright sun in the vaulted blue sky reminded him that tonight there would be a full moon. He would need to be tied, just in case. Despite having seen the two werewolves, he found himself hoping the antidote wasn't useless, and that the second dose he'd taken would save him from the same fate.

The muffled _clop clop_ of hooves in soft dirt coming up alongside him drew his attention to a watchful Pearson. The young man was still smarting from Markus' censure earlier; he would need to remember that the man was a Hunter and proud as Lucifer about it. Hunters were a breed apart from most men—they were fiercely independent, sure of themselves and their own prowess, and profoundly devoted to the Order's mission. Each man here was a product of decades of training and each was the stuff of heroes.

He wondered what they thought of Van Helsing, a man who had shown up like a whipped cur on the Palace steps only four years ago and had since then outstripped them all. Did they take delight in his downfall now? Markus had looked into his own soul when he had received his mission; he'd looked with unflinching honesty for his reaction to the news, expecting to feel some sort of vindication, a feeling of superiority. He hadn't found any of that. Truthfully, he'd felt sick to his stomach.

"Sir," Pearson's voice pulled Markus from his musings and the gray-haired hunter blinked, then smiled at the other man.

"They've been here, of course. Have the men carefully spread out to pick up their trail."

"Yes, sir." Wheeling his horse about, Pearson set about sending out teams of two to different points. Silently, grim-faced, the other hunters followed orders. It occurred to Pearson that these men all had something in common, they seemed to eat, breathe and sleep their work. Their animation and passions were reserved for their work alone; each was separate unto himself though he might be in a crowd that fully encompassed him. Even the pairs of hunters didn't share gossip or meaningless speech. They talked of the mission and only the mission.

He felt a shiver raise goosebumps on his skin as he honestly admitted that he was glad it was Van Helsing and Carl who were these men's prey and not himself. As was his wont whenever he felt the touch of inadequacy, he allowed his mind to dwell upon his successes and the failures of others. He remembered Van Helsing standing with a bowed head, naked before them all, and felt his spirit lift. Notoriety changed at the drop of hat; the mighty rose and then fell through carelessness and those who were more careful rose in their place. It was the law of the world and one he'd spent most of his life engraining into his very soul. Renewed and refreshed by his musings, he turned to join the search.

* * *

A persistent breeze rifled through the tall yellow grass that ringed their camp, filling the air with a false sound of rushing water. They had been encamped here for two days and with the constant sound of water in his ears, he felt as if he'd peed more in that time than in the past year.

Vermin scowled at the swishing grass with a hatred he normally reserved for bigots and gatecrashers. He'd give it one more day. That was fair.

Turning from his reverie of the fields, he cast satisfied eyes upon his home, the traveling circus. With Charles' untimely demise (_ahem)_ they'd made a real effort to tidy the place up--touching up the paint on the wagons, mending costumes, and giving non-stop care to the animals was paying off, he had to admit.

He'd moved into Charles' wagon and had felt a real sense of satisfaction as he'd gutted the man's belongings to make room for his own. His only regret was the loss of his friend, Peter. He spent a lot of time, thinking of the giant. Occasionally, when he was alone, he would talk outloud, as if the silent giant were there with him again and could hear him speak.

Sniffing mightily at a persistent tickle in his nose, Vermin determinedly turned his thoughts to the men who had stopped the circus two days ago. He'd known, of course, who they were. Each had the look of a hunter about him, the same look he'd come to associate with Van Helsing. They'd asked a lot of questions and he'd answered them all honestly…more or less. The dwarf rolled his eyes as he began an aimless walk that would take him through the circus by circuitous route. With the grey-haired hunter staring down at him like God on high, he hadn't felt free to be too liberal with the truth, but he'd slipped in a wobbler now and again and it seemed to go well enough.

It hadn't been hard to deduce what they were after..._who_ they were after. That's why the circus had stayed put for the last two days. The dwarf had a sneaking suspicion he'd see Van Helsing and his wolfish friend again, soon. He only hoped that the other hunters wouldn't come right behind.

* * *

"Yes, Brother? May I help you?" The Abbott of the tiny monastery peered at the man before him in wonder. No one really ever came to this place; located as they were at the very edge of a large hospitable village, the small building that housed their closed Order gave no indication of the sort of amenities that would endear it to a casual traveler. As such, there was little to recommend them to visitors who were either eager to be rid of the forest or eager to reach the inn . But the good brother who stood before him now seemed to have gone through every kind of travail to reach them, his robe was so torn as to be almost immodest, and here and there large spots of blood appeared.

Concern prompted the Abbott to take the monk's arm and lead him inside, to an upright chair set to the side of the main entry. The brother sank onto it with a sigh and a grateful smile.

"Are you alright, Brother?" the Abbott asked, peering at the other man with concern. "Is there something I can get you? Medical assistance? You look as though you could use it, Brother…Brother…?

"Chester," the monk breathed and patted the Abbott's hand that rested upon his shoulder. "I'm alright, truly. I have a mission to perform and it cannot wait long. If you could, though…."

"Of course, whatever you need," the Abbott assured him, squatting down to peer into the man's oddly vivid green eyes, they seemed almost to glow from within as if lit by a golden candle.

"A robe," Nikko said, with a smile. "To clothe myself decently. And directions—I seek the nearest office of the Inquisition."

* * *

With a feeling of unreality, Carl followed Van Helsing from the woods, to halt side-by-side looking out over the waving plain of yellow grass to see the gaudy blobs of color in the distance that announced the circus was in town.

"Full circle, Carl," Van Helsing murmured.

"Like a blinded, wounded animal staggering always to the left," Carl returned grimly.

Van Helsing shifted in his saddle to cast a sardonic glance toward the friar. "Such a little ray of sunshine, you dazzle me, Carl."

A touch of color flushed the friar's cheeks and he ducked his head. "Sorry about that," he muttered. "I guess I'm just tired."

"I wonder why?" the hunter chided gently as he nudged the friar's leg with his own.

Physical contact seemed to recall the friar to himself and Carl visibly rallied. His head rose and he looked about them with more animation than he had shown in the past hour. "So. Have you thought how we'll handle Charles? As I recall, the last time we met, he was on the outside of the cage and we were inside."

"I doubt much has changed," the hunter agreed, "but I'm hoping Vermin can hide us in the ranks. Maybe as clowns."

"Ugh," Carl shivered fastidiously. "I hate clowns."

"Hate clowns! Every child loves the clowns, Carl."

"Well not me!" the friar said firmly, though he nudged his horse along to follow the hunter as he set out at a trot across the field. "Even as a child they always gave me the willies."

"Hmm! Well, maybe the view from the inside of the circus will alter your perspective," Van Helsing called cheerily.

They approached the circus obliquely, hoping to catch sight of Vermin or Peter or even one of the many clowns. After a cautious half-circle they realized some luck as they spotted Vermin plodding along, hands behind his back, seemingly oblivious to the world. It was only by, at last, urging their horses almost on top of the dwarf, that they caught his attention.

His startled brown eyes rose, snapping to first one man, then the other before he raised his arms to cross them over his chest.

"Well! It's about time you two showed up! 'Ow long did you expect us ter wait for you?"

* * *

"So…both Charles and Peter are dead," Van Helsing summarized as he shifted his position leaning against a wall in Vermin's new quarters to cross his legs at the ankles.

"Aye," the little man nodded somberly from his position upon his bunk. "Good riddance ter the first and God speed ter the other."

Carl, sitting in the only chair that normally served as a nightstand, crossed himself absently, his mind filled with thoughts of the two men. A little jolt of the wagon brought his eyes up and to the sectioned door at the end of car. He could see the back and head of Thor, handling the team of horses that pulled the wagon, and beyond him the changing afternoon sky.

The rapidity with which the circus had pulled up stakes and set off had all but taken Carl's breath away. He had barely entered Vermin's wagon when it jolted to life and set off. Vermin had soothed his startled guests by explaining they had been waiting for the hunter and his friar. That surprising announcement had led to longer explanations; they'd learned Peter's fate at Charles' hands, and then of Charles' death at the fangs of the werewolves. Carl had an idea that Vermin was holding something back as he described Charles escaping the circus to run out into the woods before they could stop him, but he found in the end he couldn't summon the energy to go more deeply into it. The intent gaze the hunter fixed Vermin with suggested he too had his reservations, but like Carl he didn't pursue them.

"And you met more men…fourteen, on horseback two days ago," Van Helsing pressed and Vermin nodded.

"Aye. Hunters." At Carl's start, Vermin snorted with grim mirth. "Don't let me short stature fool ya, Shave Pate. I'm not short on brains. We could all tell who they were and their questionin' after you two pretty much cinched it. So…the hunter is now the hunted. Rum luck, mate."

"Mmm. They may follow us back to you…I would. By housing us, you may be putting yourself in danger." Van Helsing's grim words brought an unexpected grin to the dwarf's somber mouth.

"S'good ter know some thin's don't change. Yer as charmin' as ever. Must be why we can't get enough of yer company."

"Not to put too fine a point on it," Carl interrupted, "but exactly why _did_ you wait for us? Surely you'd be better off being rid of us?"

Vermin's smile, if possible, grew even wider, as he jerked his head toward Carl while he addressed himself to Van Helsing. "Listen to 'im! Next thin' you know, 'e'll talk us inter puttin' you two in a cage and leavin' you for the wolves."

Van Helsing acknowledged the little man's apparent determination not to discuss the danger he might be facing with a nod before he directed his smile to Carl. "He's a man of the church; he tends to take turning the other cheek and 'doing unto' more seriously than most."

"Too right," Vermin snorted, then leaned over to slap Carl's knee. "Yer a good man, Shave Pate…."

"Carl," the friar reminded him stiffly.

"Carl," Vermin repeated dutifully, then slapped Carl's leg again. "Yer okay."

"Thank you," Carl said primly, eyeing the little man dubiously; his last clear memory of the dwarf was from the clearing holding a dagger that dripped poison and blood. He wasn't inclined to forget that, no matter the understanding Van Helsing and the dwarf seemed to have come to. Emerging from his reverie, he realized Vermin was still watching him, apparently waiting. "Ah…. Well, for such a horrid little man, you're surprisingly all right too."

Vermin's loud guffaws were joined by Van Helsing's deeper laughter; at the front of the wagon, Thor smiled, pleased.

* * *

Clarie approached Vermin's wagon somewhat hesitantly. The last she'd heard of their two strange visitors, one had been a wolf and the other was well on his way to becoming one. Behind her, Chico, Mac, and Lady Puce, three clowns, followed with their arms full of paint and costumes.

The circus had stopped for a breather to allow the horses to be watered and the animals to be fed. During their break, Vermin had set out to transform his much-in-demand visitors into something a little more commonplace.

Clarie was well aware that Chico and Mac were as anxious as she, but Lady Puce, the 80-year-old matron of clowns, seemed to take it into stride.

"Well, if they haven't eaten Vermin yet, no reason to suppose they'd eat you three. Best to put a good face on it and hope for the best."

The bareback rider had rolled her eyes at this appalling bit of 'wait and see', but she trusted Vermin so she'd come along.

Vermin himself met them at the door of the wagon, urging them inside with great sweeps of his stubby hand. "'urry up! Climb in, don't be shy. Thor! Get us movin'!"

Clarie blinked at the rapidity of events, her eyes going unerringly to the two men who stood at the end of the wagon. She remembered Van Helsing and found she had a smile for him that was returned. For Carl, she also managed a smile, though it was tinged with plenty of apprehension. After all, the last good look she'd gotten of him was when he was a great deal hairier and had claws.

"Allow me to present," Vermin began, grandly indicating each, "Clarie, the bareback rider; Chico and Mac, our barrel clowns; and the lovely Lady Puce, matron of the clowns."

Carl's lips moved as he silently repeated the strange introductions to himself, his wide eyes avidly moving from one to the next. Beside him he was aware of Van Helsing bowing and hastened to do the same.

Lady Puce tittered, and raised her cotton gloved hand to her bright crimson mouth. Her costume, a sweeping pinkish bell dotted with tiny purple flowers, swished as she essayed a slightly rickety curtsy. Her grey hair was left natural and swept up into a Gibson girl, with bright flowers and a tiny hat perched over it all.

Chico and Mac, not to be outdone, curtsied as well and managed to crash into one another so that Mac fell onto the ground.

A faint giggle escaped Carl and he blushed fiercely as the three clowns turned his way. "Er…sorry."

"No need, mate," Vermin assured him graciously. "All part of the act. And somethin' you'll need ter learn."

"Ah…about that," Carl began, raising one finger to swing from himself to Van Helsing like a pendulum. "We're not really clown material, I'm afraid. I mean, I might be able to carry it off, but Van Helsing….well…."

"Van Helsing, well?" the hunter queried, raising an eyebrow at his friend. "Carl, I doubt we'll be front and center. We'll simply be two more clowns in the background."

"I don't know, mate," Vermin said thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the two men. "I'm thinkin' we can use you two. We've been plannin' on startin' a 'igh wire act…you two could move inter that sharp like."

"High…._wire_!" Carl squeaked appalled.

Vermin smiled, and shrugged. "Well, you'll be in makeup after all, seems a shame ter waste it..."

Clarie found herself smiling at the obviously horrified friar. He was nothing like she thought he'd be, he didn't seem to have a dangerous bone in his body. Besides which, she was also noting, in the dim changing light that entered and ebbed from the wagon, he was a remarkably good looking man. They both were.

Moving forward, she swatted Vermin out of the way. "Pay him no mind," she said reassuringly, reaching for Carl's hand to hold and pat it solicitously. "He's merely being evil. He can't help himself, he was warped at childhood and has never recovered."

"Oh," Carl said, forgetting himself so far as to crane about the girl in front of him to take another look at the 'evil' little man, who grinned at him and waved waggling fingers. "Yes, I can see what you mean," the friar said more firmly.

"Why don't you sit down," Clarie suggested, gesturing to the chair. Once the friar had seated himself, she sat down upon the edge of the bed. The others arranged themselves comfortably about the wagon. "Now," Clarie said as she produced a pencil and a piece of paper seemingly out of thin air, smiling at Carl's amazed gasp. "We'll draw the face you would like to have."

"Draw a face?" the friar blinked, looking from the paper to the faces around them.

"Yes, you'll want to choose the face that best suits you. A clown's face is a deeply personal thing. You can't be expected to act naturally in your costume if it doesn't suit you."

"Oh! I had no idea it was so complicated."

"That's alright, you'll learn quickly" the girl assured him pleasantly. "Now, we draw your own face first." With a few quick strokes, Clarie recreated Carl's face, preening slightly as the hunter and the friar praised her work. "Now, we don't want you to stand out too much from the other clowns, but we should be able to give you something you'll like. Do you want to be a happy clown? Or a sad one?"

Van Helsing watched Carl's engrossed face with amusement as his new personae gradually appeared before them. For a man who hated clowns, he seemed to be getting a great deal of enjoyment from the prospect. When Clarie finished the drawing, Carl's portrait had evolved into a widely smiling face with dots of bright red color on the cheeks and rainbow diamonds that formed half arcs from the outer corners of his eyes to the sides of his mouth. His eyes were made up in blue which he didn't seem to notice brought out their color, though Van Helsing suspected Clarie noticed. A red bulbous nose was added, to the friar's surprised pleasure.

Next they picked out a costume, not surprisingly in blues and purples with a hoop of wire about his middle that made him appear 50 pounds heavier. Last, but not least, they produced a long yellow wig, teased out into large wedges all around his head. Making Carl up took surprisingly little time; Mac and Chico were deft hands at it and Carl seemed to be swept up in the process.

When they were all finished, in the friar's place stood a small, potbellied, slightly hunched clown with a charming grin to match his painted smile.

Huge boat-like shoes and a huge rubber cigar would eventually complete the friar's costume, but given the constricted space of the wagon, they were put aside for the moment.

"Now, for you, mate!" Vermin announced, rubbing his hands together as he eyed Van Helsing with almost malevolent glee.

The hunter ignored the dwarf; his suspicious attention was focused upon the only person in the wagon who hadn't had a part in the proceedings yet—Lady Puce.

"We're going to make you a treat for the eyes," she assured him with a minxish smile. "A real beauty! Now, everyone but Clarie, out! I've a masterpiece to create!"

* * *

The afternoon had spent itself and the circus had stopped for the evening. Vermin had left Carl to wait for his partner, saying no doubt Van Helsing would prefer to unveil to a smaller audience the first time. The fact that the little man who made no bones about being 'evil' should show such sensitivity should have alerted the friar. Regrettably, it did not.

Carl shoved a fist into his mouth to stop any noise from escaping as the 'beauty' that had once been the Order's premier hunter stepped down from the wagon. The circus' newest clown had a dangerous spark in his hazel eyes that warned the friar he'd do better to choke on the guffaw boiling up from his gut than to let it out. This, Carl thought, was really quite unfair since the object of a clown was to make the beholder laugh. And Van Helsing certainly had unsuspected talents in that direction!

Standing over six feet tall in high-heeled ankle boots, he displayed several hairy inches of leg before his too-short skirt mercifully obscured the rest. The purple silk of his costume seemed to be primarily skirt which artfully draped a tremendous stomach—plainly, the hunter was meant to be a woman in the last desperate stages of pregnancy. A tiny bodice with dainty puffed sleeves did little to hide the hunter's muscular and hairy torso. The sight of it reminded Carl irresistibly of a gorilla stuffed into tiny bustier. Van Helsing's fine throat was encircled by a collar studded with very large, very gaudy rhinestones. Carefully avoiding the hunter's eye, Carl instead concentrating his gaze on the flaming red wig arranged in pretty delicate curls with a tiny flower-pot hat perched on top.

Then, inexorably, like a moth drawn to the flame and its doom, Carl's eyes were dragged to Van Helsing's face.

"Oh my," he breathed, stepping forward for a better look. "You actually look…quite acceptable. Well…the face, not the rest…of course…."

The hunter's rosebud lips, created courtesy of carefully applied whiteface and pink rouge, parted to reveal a white snarl. The eyes, outlined with kohl lashes and a green shadow that brought out the green in the hunter's eyes, narrowed with a blatant promise of unimaginable retribution in the friar's near future. The last time Carl had seen such makeup done, he'd been reading rather avidly about a breed of oriental lady called a 'geisha'; and the last time he seen such sheer unadulterated danger in a pair of eyes he'd been less than three feet from a hungry vampire. The latter memory won out and he stepped back with a cough and lowered eyes.

"She did a nice job of you," he supplied, hopefully.

"I look like an expectant ape," the hunter growled repressively. "And these boots are coming off. I can't walk in the damned things."

"I'm surprised they had a pair that would fit. You must have small…er…." Carl swallowed the last word with a harsh gulp as one stenciled brow rose, daring him to say it. "Well…anyway…certainly no one would recognize either of us."

"God, I hope not," Van Helsing muttered and turned away to stomp off in the direction of the tent that had been set up for them. Carl followed, idly noting that, despite his claims to the contrary, the hunter seemed to have excellent balance in his new footwear.

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

Rating: PG13

Pairing: Carl/Gabriel, the beginnings of a slash relationship

Series/Sequel: The continuation of Brother Wolf

Notes: Dreams and nightmares

Warning: Aspersions against the Church of Van Helsing's time (which I feel are merited), the ongoing relationship of Gabriel and Carl that with togetherness, deepens.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play

Feedback: This one was a BUGGER! No laughs in this one, I'm afraid, but with luck, I hope that you still find it affecting. To **_Moonlup, RenegadeRanger, MagRowan, GlasTriskellion, RuntsGal, Illudrae, Elwyndra, Milady Dragon, and Ashti,_** I thank you with all my heart for your reviews and your thoughts! Get ready for Nikko's return and the answer to your questions!

To **_Chibi-Kaz_**, my wolf expert and "nervous-author hand-holder", thank you so much for your words of wisdom and insight and the incredible muse-boost your story **After the Storm** provided! Wow!

Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

_The arms of Morpheus can be as a lover's embrace or the harshest of pillories. Sleepers take heed and take warning, be certain of who will greet you when you enter the vulnerable night._ **

* * *

SISTER WOLF 9 **

"Carl, why didn't the antidote work?"

The friar paused in his zealous scrubbing to look up at the hunter, already scrubbed clean and curled up on his cot. Lamplight that caught the olive tone of Van Helsing's skin did not reach so far as the thin cot mattress, leaving it in darkness so that the hunter seemed to float, supine, in mid air.

Blinking at the illusion, he came to himself again to wince at the thick grease paint dripping sloppily from his chin and arms over his bared chest and stomach. He turned, plunging back into the basin with renewed zeal, plying the soap with a purpose as he shrugged.

"I don't know that it _didn't_ work, precisely. It seems to have worked to some degree in that we aren't forced to change with every moon."

The hunter nodded thoughtfully, his long fingers picking at the thin blanket he lay upon. "Is it possible that another dose of the antidote would stop it completely?"

Carl's washing stopped again as he considered the idea; unconsciously his head wagged from side to side, as if he were holding an internal debate. "It…might," he conceded, thoughtfully. "It's certainly worth a try. Do you want to take a second dose?"

Van Helsing's silence caused the friar to turn, dripping hands held before him as he watched the thoughts that chased openly across the other man's face.

"You don't," Carl said flatly, a little surprised that he wasn't more surprised.

With a vexed frown, the hunter shook his head. "I don't know, Carl. The wolf is not evil…."

"It's a part of you," Carl interupted quietly, turning back to the basin for the towel. Taking his time to dry his face, hands, and chest before he turned back around, Carl thought carefully about what he would say. "I don't think the wolf is something apart from us, a wholly different creature. I think it's just an extension of ourselves, what we all keep buried inside that's been brought to the light. Without Dracula to control and force it to comply with his own plans, the wolf is free to be what it would normally be—an extension of the man."

A grim smile touched the hunter's lips as he looked up to meet the friar's eyes. "I doubt the church would see it that way."

Carl's lips pursed as he blew out a soundless steam of air, a rueful light in his eyes as he moved to his own cot, sitting down slowly. "Nooo, I think you're probably right. But you have to remember, the church's views are based upon the popular knowledge of werewolves. No one has ever heard of a wolf that didn't terrorize and destroy. One can hardly blame them or the average man for taking the path of caution."

Leaning forward, Van Helsing snagged the damp towel from Carl's heedless fingers and tossed it toward the washstand, watching it drape soggily half on and half off the rickety table.

Shivering at the nighttime chill, the friar pulled his blankets back and slid down under them, tucking the warm cloth well under his chin even as his toes wiggled in protest at the cold touch of the unwarmed sheets. He could understand Van Helsing's reticence—the wolf undeniably was a fascinating dichotomy. On one hand, the hunter had spent the last four years hunting and killing such beasts; on the other, he now had the opportunity to experience at first hand what it felt like to actually be a werewolf. The difference between what he had always believed to be true and the possibility that he had been wrong about the creatures must be anathema to a man like Van Helsing. A man who considered his first duty as a hunter to be the preservation of innocence would find the possibility that he had failed, not once but repeatedly, a very heavy cross to bear.

"If it's any help," Carl murmured, "I didn't believe then and I don't now that you were wrong to kill the werewolves you've met in the past. Just because one wolf can be innocent of evil doesn't make them all innocent."

"No," Van Helsing sighed, as he rolled over onto his back, his glittering eyes fixed upon the stained canvas roof above them. "But killing a hundred evil werewolves doesn't make up for the loss of one innocent. And I'll never know."

"No, you'll never know for certain," Carl agreed. "But sentencing yourself to a life of lycanthropy won't make up for that crime, if you actually did kill an innocent."

Van Helsing made no reply to that. Stretching out one hand, he turned down the wick in the burning lantern, allowing the shadows to swell across the bellying walls and roof of their tent until the only light remaining was the glowing ember at the tip of the extinguished wick. Then, even that was gone.

"Good night, Carl."

"Sleep well, Gabriel."

* * *

The Order's hunters made camp in the forest, a scant mile from Van Helsing's and Carl's original trap site. Normally, they would have continued for some hours, but tonight was a full moon and even the hunt now took a backseat to more urgent business. 

Markus grunted as the ropes binding him to the tree constricted his chest harshly. Above him, Pearson winced and shrugged.

"Sorry…."

"No need," the grey-haired hunter growled. "Make 'em tight, we all know why this has to be done, you don't need to pussy foot about it."

"Yes, of course," Pearson agreed hastily, frowning as he went back to the job of securing the other Hunter for the night. "Er…it will be a full moon tonight. If the antidote should work, if you don't change, it should be alright to take the ropes off…."

"Not tonight," Markus interrupted grimly. "Tomorrow, in the light of day, that'll be soon enough to make some decisions."

The other hunter made no reply this time; instead, finishing off the last knot, he excused himself with Markus' blessings. If the truth were told, the grey-haired hunter was grateful for the time alone. True, the others would be watching him from their camp, a few yards distant, throughout the night with weapons drawn--he'd do no less himself. But at least now his thoughts could remain his own, without the strain of trying to hold a normal conversation.

Against his will, Markus' eyes turned for the hundredth time to the sky. Sunset had painted it with gaudy bright color that made him want to squint. He found he looked forward to the cool lapis-blue serenity of true night; whether this was so because it would bring him the answer to his fears, or because the wolf he suspected lay curled within him craved it, he didn't know. The last of the color was slowly fading and he could see the first star appear, glittering in the heavens.

"Van Helsing," he murmured.

* * *

The same glittering star shone down on the overgrown garden behind the monastery, cloaking its twisted vines and lumpish vegetables in a thick rich blanket of darkness. Standing heedless among the delicate vines and stems, Nikko delicately wiped away a thin trail of red from his lips as his green eyes rose to the encroaching night sky. He had a long journey ahead of him; the good brothers had been most accommodating, providing him with clothing, directions to the nearest offices of the Inquisition, and lastly a hearty meal. He sucked on the crimson stain that cooled on his finger as a small smile plucked at his lips. Of course, the brothers hadn't meant to have their _last_ meal with him, but once the screaming had died down, he found he enjoyed it just the same. 

He also enjoyed the feeling of the cool night air caressing his nude body as he stepped carefully out of his borrowed robes and folded them neatly about a pair of almost new sandals. Truthfully, while he appreciated the irony of his wearing sheep's clothing in the daylight, he found the robes tended to itch rather badly.

Sparked by thoughts of the itchy robe, a hazy memory floated into his mind and his smile deepened as he coaxed it to full life. He could feel, once again, the soft warm suppleness of Carl's nude body, taste his unexpectedly sweet mouth. Despite his words to the contrary, he'd believed the friar when he'd said he was a virgin—it was plain in how his mouth opened so easily while his body had shuddered and jerked away. He regretted not having had the opportunity to sample the friar completely. Even now, thinking of squeezing Carl's soft flesh, of thrusting into his mouth with a greedy tongue while he hammered into his body was awakening some very pleasurable sensations in his own body. Attracted by his rising excitement, the cold dark presence that now shared his mind uncurled, sleek and dangerous, responding to his arousal. He shared his memories of the feel and taste of Carl with it as he stroked himself to completion and felt it shudder with pleasure.

* * *

**_In the quiet darkness, dreams rushed to greet the sleepers, bringing with them their own nightmarish specters. Everything that follows are dreams..._**

* * *

Carl whimpered as he recognized the green clearing littered with deceptively bright leaves. He didn't want to be here, didn't want to see this place ever again; he turned to retrace his steps through the woods but found the trees had grown too close together to allow his body to pass through. He tried, over and over, but accomplished nothing but rubbing his chest and back raw. He noticed, then, that he was nude. It seemed both odd and natural that he should be without clothing, but as there weren't any convenient robes lying about he would have to make due. 

Steeling himself, he walked cautiously forward, into the clearing. His first fearful sweep of the glade showed him nothing out of the ordinary. Gratefully, he remembered that Markus had said they had disposed of the mercenaries' bodies. As he walked cautiously toward the middle of the clearing, he easily spotted the edges of the pit he and Van Helsing had dug, its cover of branches and leaves still concealing its depths from the unwary. He hesitated, feeling a strong aversion to approaching the blind hole while at the same time he desperately wanted to assure himself it was empty. Leaning forward, he peered suspiciously at it, his body braced to flee at the smallest sign of movement.

There was no movement, though, and no sign that the pit had been disturbed. He bit at his lip as his feet inched forward of their own volition. His body was trembling hard, his mouth was dust dry, and he could feel the hairs on his body prickle and rise with each step closer. Something was wrong, he _knew _it, but he couldn't see anything amiss.

The soft breeze that seemed to perpetually circle about the clearing stirred the emerald leaves over the pit and lifted his hair from his sweating brow. He swallowed hard, and edged forward. There was a feeling of watchfulness to the clearing now, as if it held its breath waiting for him to get closer. He wanted to make a noise to break that awful stillness, to clear his noise or to shout, but he was afraid of what might answer back.

He was within three feet of the pit now; he lifted his nose and sniffed the air—there was something, he could almost recognize it but each time he reached for the memory it eluded him easily. His blood was pounding now in his ears, he was afraid that even if a noise did come from that pit, he'd never hear it.

He closed his eyes licked his lips with a dry tongue, and then edged forward again.

Abruptly, the soft earth beneath his feet crumbled apart like soft snow; he yelped, throwing himself backward but the edge was crumbling all around him. He clawed at the wet ground, catching and discarding handfuls of loose dirt as he slowly slid into the dark pit.

From the darkness white bloodless limbs rose to meet him; he screamed as he fell down on top of the cold corpses of the slaughtered mercenaries. Scrabbling and slipping on their cold flesh, he fought to stand so that he could climb from the pit only to have a body shift and send him falling back among them.

From the corner of his eye, a dark shadow detached itself from the rest to move forward, gliding over the bodies easily. He stared, open-mouthed, as Nikko appeared before him, nude, covered in mud, his mouth red with gore. He was…chewing something.

Carl screamed and he flung himself backward, up over the lip of the pit, terror lent him the agility to claw his way to safety before the loose earth could collapse beneath him. He scrabbled over the ground on all fours, aware of going much much too slow.

Then he heard the thud of a body hitting the earth behind him. He rolled over and looked up at Nikko standing above him, his lips curled in a pleased smile that revealed red teeth. He opened his mouth to scream again, to call for help, but his throat seemed to close and his voice was gone.

Nikko's eyes narrowed as he lowered himself to all fours like a beast. A continual purring growl rumbled in his chest, filling Carl's ears. The friar could only watch as Nikko moved forward, creeping toward him. Carl's eyes widened impossibly as his throat worked, trying to grind out a sound, any sound.

One hairy arm reached out, the claw-tipped fingers brushing Carl's foot;Nikko's smile became a grin that grew wider and wider, splitting the mercenary's face so that the skin and muscle sheered away, allowing a dark creature to emerge, its eyes red with an inner fire. It bore a vague resemblance to a werewolf, but its body was misshapen with exaggerated musculature and a humped back, and its dark skin was almost hairless. Its head was almost flat, the golden eyes placed low and to the sides glowed with human intelligence.

Carl's scream tore from his throat as the creature moved forward.

* * *

Markus turned about, surprised to find himself on his feet; he lifted his hands, looking at their pale shape in the soft light of the full moon before looking back at the tree he'd been bound to. The ropes that had held him tightly to the tree's rough bark now lie in shreds. Wonderingly, he looked up again, this time searching the clearing for what he knew must be there. 

Within the shadows of the trees, the moon's light picked out blue highlights that twinkled on thick black fur. Markus leaned forward, peering carefully into the shadows only to jerk back several steps as two golden eyes opened to stare fixedly into his own.

The One, the black wolf, moved quietly from the darkness into the moonlight. The yellow light caressed it, flowed over its dark body like a glittering mantle, and Markus shuddered and closed his eyes, shaking his head harshly. This was no icon, no deity. It was an animal, nothing more.

He heard its approaching footsteps, the soft breaking of brittle stems and sticks seemed incongruous with the thudding sound each step seemed to evoke within his mind. It puzzled, absorbed him, until he realized the pounding was the sound of his own heart, keeping pace with each deliberate footfall.

When the wolf touched him, a rough/soft graze of warm pads against his cheek, he started like a nervous hare, his eyes flying open to a furred muscular chest only inches away. The touch he had felt on his face he now identified as the wolf's long fingers; they moved again, carefully stroking his skin, mindful of the silver claws that tipped each digit. As if compelled, his face rose as his eyes did, sliding over the impossibly broad dark shoulders, over the velvet-covered throat, to the wolf's face.

His eyebrows soared as the golden eyes looking down at him squeezed shut, then opened again, fixing him with a gaze he could only describe as containing equal measures of curiosity and caution. He felt a sense of wonder take the place of at least a part of his former fear, and he watched with surprise as his own hand rose to hesitantly touch the wolf's muzzle. The unexpected bristling of dark whiskers shocked him, their slick supple length slid between his fingers and he winced as he realized he was pulling on them when the dark muzzle wrinkled in a snarl. No further chastisement came, though; and with renewed courage, he slid his fingers up higher, touching for the first time the wolf's soft black fur.

"Oooh," he breathed, his eyes now on his own fingers rather than the wolf's eyes. The slick velvet of the wolf's muzzle was cool to the touch, but warmed quickly beneath his hand.

The wolf, in turn, seemed to put up with the man's curiosity with good grace. Its long ears were slightly flattened, the golden eyes still cautious, but its own explorations moved further afield as the long fingers slid into Markus' shoulder length grey hair. Likewise, Markus' fingers slid over the wolf's cheek to touch the heavy mane of long fur that flowed over its neck.

A strange feeling of peace and need filled his mind and slowed his senses to a crawl as Markus watched his hands stroke the monster before him. He felt no evil in the creature, no sense of danger. That it was a wild animal he never doubted, and yet he couldn't help the inappropriate sense of awe that dragged at his reflexes and dulled his mind.

"Gabriel?" he murmured, his eyebrows rising as the long dark ears rose from half mast to cant forward. His hands slid down over the shoulders to the deep chest and he felt more than heard the answering growl. "You don't like that? Gabriel?"

Another growl, this one louder, this one he heard. How stupid was it to stand before a werewolf and provoke it? Both his hands were on the broad chest now, smoothing over the short velvet fur, downward to the rippled stomach. The heat coming from the wolf's body was amazing, literally enveloping him in warmth that sank through his skin to his very soul.

Markus closed his eyes as the warmth filled every pore of his body and every dark hole in his mind. He moved into it, sliding his arms about the wolf to lay his cheek against the furred breast.

"Gabriel," he sighed and felt a profound sense of relief as he relinquished the fight within himself. He felt the stirring of something within, buried so deep he couldn't identify it. It responded to the closeness and warmth, filling him with the feeling of safety and pleasure. He opened his mind and heart to it eagerly as he rubbed his cheek against the wolf's warm chest--but nothing came of his surrender. The wonderful feeling grew weaker rather than stronger; when he grabbed for it, strained to recapture it, it only fled faster until it was only a memory.

Against his cheek, the wolf stirred, making a questioning noise as Markus turned his head to bury his face in the black fur.

When the change came, he felt it—when the wolf's attention left him, its body becoming rigid as its head lifted and a deep dangerous snarl rolled over the peaceful wood like thunder, he tightened his hands on the thick fur of its back.

"No! Don't be angry, don't leave me!"

As easily as a man could push away a child, the wolf pushed away from Markus and turned away to disappear into the dark woods.

He fell to his knees, his hands still closed, resting on the ground. He felt anger and loss together as the first tear traced down his cheek and he opened his hands to the moon, letting the strands of black fur he clutched take flight on the night wind.

* * *

The black wolf emerged from the dark wood into harsh green light. There were two struggling figures in the familiar clearing--a hoarse snarl ground from his throat as he recognized one of them, the One. He could hear the One's cries of distress, could sense his terror and felt his own mind blaze red with insensate rage. He lunged forward, flying through the air with claws extended and slavering jaws gaping to smash into the creature, bowling it off the One. 

The creature…the interloper…rolled, snapping, and the black wolf slapped at it hard, his claws a glittering arc that cut deep crimson wells across the interloper's face. Warm blood washed the black wolf's claws and his golden eyes flared as he lunged forward again. The interloper was prepared this time and met him, gaping jaws slamming into his own as they fought to kill one another. When the interloper raked the black wolf's inner thigh with its hind claws, he howled as a hot rush of blood washed his foot. In the next instant, the interloper was shoved away, flying over the ground to crash against the close-set tree boles.

It twisted awkwardly against the boles, flipping with a bone-wracking jolt back onto its feet and whirled. Carl scrambled backward on the ground as the interloper rose to its hind feet, a dark chuckle dropping from its jaws as it realized Carl was between it and the black wolf. Within his chest, the friar felt his own wolf awaken as though from a deep sleep and come roaring forth.

Two wolves, black and white, slammed into the interloper, carrying it down to the ground. Two sets of jaws lunged forward and closed on the interloper's throat, shutting off its snarling howl of agony with a dull wet click.

* * *

**_The dreamers awake..._**

* * *

Carl lunged upward, his breath coming in heaving gasps as his eyes flew to Van Helsing's bed. The hunter was also sitting up, his eyes wide and filled with a golden glare.

"What was that?" Carl gasped, not questioning that the hunter would understand.

"Nikko, he's a werewolf," Van Helsing snapped, his voice a harsh grating growl. With a vicious swipe that tore the blankets from his body, he slid from the bed and came to Carl, catching his biceps to drag the friar up to his feet. Immediately, he yanked Carl into a hard hug, straining him tight to his body.

Carl shuddered, and encircled the hunter's torso with his own arms as he buried his face in the hollow of Van Helsing's throat. The closeness didn't seem odd or strained, it was expected by the wolf that howled within his mind and snapped at unseen foes. "I was afraid," he rasped in a voice half whimper, half snarl.

"I know," the other man admitted. "I felt it."

Carl shoved away. "I was _afraid_," he repeated in a harsh vibrating growl that held equal portions of self-loathing and blame.

"You weren't ready, you weren't prepared for it. Now you are, now _nothing_ can hurt you."

"I don't need your platitudes!" the friar snapped, shoving at the other man.

"Then what? _What,_ Carl?"

With a harsh snarl that came from the dark fury that possessed his wolf, the friar slapped at the other man, feeling his palm connect hard enough to jolt his arm to the elbow and burn his skin with a harsh stinging sensation.

The hunter's face was turned from Carl's with the blow; and Carl stared open-mouthed at the man's profile, horrified.

In the breathless silence that followed, he heard the sound of Van Helsing's breathing roughen into a staccato snarl. Suddenly, the hunter stepped back toward the back of the tent, where the shadows were the thickest, dragging Carl with him. There was a pile of unused canvas there and he kicked savagely at it until he'd hollowed out the center, then he stepped into it, pulling Carl with him as he sank down into it. He shoved Carl hard, back against the rough side of the nest he'd made, and then covered his friar with his body.

Carl gasped as the hot masculine weight settled over him like dark water, pinning him tight against the canvas, drowning him in heat without an inch of wiggle room. In his ear he heard Van Helsing's snarling breath and felt the hair on his body rise. He shoved hard against the other man, his voice raised in anger.

"Stop it, Van Helsing! I'm not an animal! I'm not!"

Then, words were being spoken, poured into his ear.

"_No more, Carl! **Mine**_!"

The friar gasped for breath into the hard shoulder that pressed against him. He was safe in the nest, nothing would reach him here that they did not allow. Still...he needed..._more_. He felt the heavy weight of his wolf surge upward, filling his mind, roughening his voice as his hands curled about the other man's shoulders until his nails dug into the warm flesh. "_Swear it,"_ he growled.

The growled words of Van Helsing's reply in his ear made Carl squirm and press his face hard to the hunter's neck. "I swear it."

With the hunter's weight pressing him down and his soothing baritone voice pouring into his ears, the disjointed feelings of fury and shame gave way, bit by bit, until only the empty man was left. Shuddering with relief, Carl lifted his face, awkwardly nuzzling and then licking Van Helsing's throat, feeling the silk of skin and the burn of stubble against his tongue. Softly, he repeated the words, "I sweat it, I swear it."

* * *

Markus roused from his dreams to open his eyes, squinting against the tears that blurred his vision and the slanting light of the sun. The cool unreality of night was over; the harsh reality of day had stolen its place, putting an end to dreams and regrets. 

He hadn't turned.

The grey-haired hunter looked over at the still camp of waiting silent men, and then up at the lightening sky that held no trace of stars or moonlight.

He wasn't a werewolf.

The tears that hung upon his eyelashes fell, leaving cold wet trails upon his face.

tbc


	10. Chapter 10REWRITE

**Note: The original chapter 10 has been rewritten. I felt (and so did several of you!) that it rushed things along WAY too fast. Hence the rewrite. I hope that this rewrite makes more sense and that you find it enjoyable. Of course, if you've read the original 10, you know what's going to happen now—it'll just happen a lot more slowly! **

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play

Feedback: To **_MagRowan, Elwyndra, Milady Dragon,and Illudrae_** thank you so much for your reviews and insights on both chapters 9 and the original 10. I love the way you think! I hope that you enjoy the new 10, but if you don't please let me know what doesn't work.

Special thanks to **_GlasTriskellion_** who wasn't afraid to tell me "huh?". I'm very very grateful for your honesty and I hope that this new chapter is on the right track.

To **_Chibi-Kaz_**, my wolf expert and "nervous-author hand-holder", thanks ever so much for your lovely review—you know, the one where you said "NOT MY FAULT": ) I admit I got a big kick out of it. And as ever, thank you for helping me with the rewrite! Thanks to you and GlasTriskellion, you have a LOT more chapters to look forward to beta'ing!

Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

**

* * *

SISTER WOLF 10 --****REWRITE**

Markus squinted into the early morning's slanting light as he irritably shifted in the saddle; he was aware of the men riding beside him watching with sideways looks. They were all awkward today. They knew he wasn't a werewolf, but they still had to make the emotional adjustment from viewing him as a threat to accepting him once again as a Hunter. While he didn't like it, he'd been prepared for it. In return, he had chosen to maintain a silent distance from the others, needing the solitude the lack of conversation allowed to concentrate on his own inner turmoil.

He was neither a coward nor a liar by nature; in the wake of his dream the previous night, with the image of the black wolf coming to him in the forest still fresh in his mind, he was forced to view his pastbehaviourclearly. He wasn't happy with what he saw, but he couldn't deny it either.

Putting it plainly--he'd whored himself to a beast...opening his heart to the beast within while clinging to another like a bawling babe. True, it had happened in a dream, but if he were honest, he had to admit many things had had been made clear the previous night. Remembering them now, he squirmed in the saddle as he fervently prayed most of those uncomfortable truths hadn't been visible to everyone else all along.

First, he had always held Van Helsing in awe. Not lust, though it could have easily turned to that if he were a less religious man. True, he hadn't swooned after him like some pigtailed lovestruck girl, but he had to admit that he'd viewed the anomalies surrounding Van Helsing with what amounted to devotional awe. For a man as deeply devotional as Markus, it was a short embarrassing step to seeing those anomalies as divine mysteries. In his love of God, he had loved, as well, the possibilities he'd seen in Van Helsing.

When faced with the long white scars on Van Helsing's back, the fancyhad taken root in his mind that they wereproof that wings, granted by God, had once sprung from the broad back.

Van Helsing was a warrior without parallel. He'd taken that as another sign, thinking the Hunter's skills sprung from the heavenly battles he had fought at God's behest.

The healing ability—everyone knew of it and crossed themselves as they muttered in quiet whispers. He'd been less vocal, but no less awed. Surely it was a gift from God for his servant. His Left Hand.

Markus stifled a groan, closing his eyes as he tightened his grip on the squeaking leather reins. '_God's Left Hand_'. The man who had lived 400 years, possibly longer. They'd all heard the whispers of it. How could men who lived and died fighting evil by God's will not be profoundly moved by that realization? Some scoffed, some denied it, some were disturbed by it...they were all awed by the possibility.

He'd all but turned Van Helsing into a saint, a personification of God on earth. _God!_ If he'd heard the same thing from any other man, he'd have thought the fellow barking mad. Hmph! Maybe he _was_ mad.

If so, it would explain his final fit of insanity--when he'd opened himself to the beast within. He'd hugged the black wolf to him, almost prayed to it, all because he'd loved the shining goodness he fancied Van Helsing to personify. If Van Helsing were an instrument of God, how could his wolf be evil?

'Shining goodness'. God was shiny, and perfect and above reproach. Men were sweaty, scratching, dirty animals—and that was the best of them.

And in the end, he'd been devastated at the seeming denial from God that had shut him off from his own wolf, his own means of following Van Helsing's lead.

With an oath, Markus urged his horse to a gallop, hearing the others briefly fall behind before catching up. It had been a dream. All a dream. A sad, devastating trip through insanity for a religious zealot who had forgotten himself in his urge to prostrate himself before his God.

Well, daylight had brought a new way of looking at things. A much more palatable way. He might be disgusted with himself and angry at being duped by Van Helsing, but he had found a valuable truth--one shot of Carl's antidote would not cure the lycanthropy. In all likelihood, it merely allowed the victim to control it. But he had had two shots—one before he reached the village, and one after Van Helsing had bitten him. The second apparently pushed the wolf so far back it was inaccessible.

The cure worked. He was living proof. He would prove it with the greatest of pleasure on the Hunter and his friar very shortly.

* * *

So many mistakes. 

The alpha wolf licked her fur with short sharp jabs as her mind whirled with her human's thoughts. Their village was lost to them, overrun by humans who carried the stink of killers upon them. Brother Chester had long ago explained the 'Order' and what its attentionscould mean to her; she knew who the invaders were and what they represented—the Order knew about their village now. They could never return to it.

And now they were cut adrift and Brother Chester, the man who might have helped her to formulate a plan of action, was gone as well. He had disappeared during the chaos of their evacuation. They'd searched for him, but due to the hunters that still followed them, they hadn't been able to make a thorough job of it.

She reminded herself of a well kept secret--that however much _he_ might want to deny it, Brother Chester was a werewolf. The woods were full of dangers to a man, but a werewolf would normally be safe enough.

A lance of guilt stabbed at her and she snarled softly at it even as she admitted the truth of it to herself. Brother Chester might harbor a wolf within, but he barely qualified as a werewolf. He'd told her that he'd lied to Van Helsing and Carl about having lycanthropy in his veins, and then he'd been so guilty about such a small lie. She hardly thought of it as a lie--he had never allowed himself to admit to the wolf within him, much less let it emerge. In all the time she'd known him, not once had he freed the wolf within him. It was likely that, if it were ever allowed free,the Brother's wolf would be disoriented and all but unaware of his human. She should have insisted that Brother Chester allow it freedom, so their joining would be stronger. Now, she suspected it was too late.

Brother Chester had been concerned about the other stranger, the green-eyed one. He too was missing. It was likely Brother Chester had tried to help him. With danger all around them, if provoked, the Brother's wolf might have finally emerged and with their imperfect joining, Chester would not be able to instruct his wolf on how to deal with a human. So, it was likely Chester had killed the stranger and the hunters had killed Chester in turn.

Sarah raised her head, giving over her pretended grooming to allow her golden eyes to slide over the waiting pack. So many mistakes. She couldn't hide them, her pack knew of them. They were turning from her...they didn't hate her, wolves didn't hate. But they didn't follow other wolves who were obviously defective, either.

She didn't hate them either, she never would. But she was human enough to clearly understand her situation and feel a detached anger for it. She was also human enough to know what it would take to resolve it.

Sarah rose and without a backward look she trotted into the woods, following the scent that would lead her to the One, the beginning of all that had gone wrong.

Behind her, the other wolves hesitated, looking after the alpha, then back to the beta couple still lying on the ground, panting. Seconds passed and turned into moments before the first wolf rose, and trotted after the alpha. Then another rose, and another.

Wolves don't think of blame. They do watch for weakness, they understand weakness. They would still follow the alpha, to judge her final act themselves.

* * *

Carl stirred within the warmth that enshrouded him, nuzzling at it with an abandoned pleasure that he'd normally only enjoyed after a particularly lusty night with an accomplished bed partner. 

A sleepy smile curved his lips as he viscerally recognized the familiar sensation of being entwined with another body, of being held in a comforting and comfortable closeness that was only achievable with complete and total lack of decorum. It was a particularly favorite feeling of his, and he clung to it, relishing the sleepy surrender.

Lazily he pursed his lips and pressed a soft wet kiss to the warm skin he seemed to have his face plastered to. It gave a little and his smile increased as he recognized the soft curve of it as promising additional pleasures. Like a blind puppy, he rubbed and nuzzled about until he found what he was looking for and latched on eagerly, suckling strongly.

His first clue all was not as it seemed was the start and harsh gasp he heard as he suckled. He might have forgiven the start—it _was_ a bit early—but the gasp had a rich deep baritone quality that was all together lacking in his normally giggling bed partners. Had he gone to bed with someone who had a cold? A particularly nasty cold? Ugh!

The chest beneath his mouth flexed—and another disturbing realization came as he felt the rasp of hair beneath his busily working lips and chin. _Hair!_ A nasty cold and hairy to boot? What kind of a dog had he gone to bed with?

His much-coveted sleepy ease fled as he opened his eyes wide to see he was sucking, still, upon a broad, muscular, hairy pectoral...most definitely _not_ the soft, rounded, womanly breast he thought he'd latched onto!

He hastily pulled back, his eyes flying up to see Van Helsing's flushed startled face.

He'd suckled Van Helsing?

Carl's abrupt scramble for freedom would have done a road runner proud; his bare feet barely touched the canvas about them. He ignored the obstacles of gravity, decorum and Van Helsing to get free, until he stood at last, on two feet, chest heaving, eyes wide, pink mouth hanging open as he gasped for air, within the doorway of their tent. The only thing stopping him from fleeing outside was that he wore only a thin shirt that barely came down to mid-thigh and not even the mortification of having shared a morning nuzzle with his best friend would let him step out into public naked. Not again!

The hunter was rising as well, his brow furrowed, his fingers absently rubbing his sore wet nipple before he realized Carl was watching and hastily dropped his hand. Then crossed his arms. He thanked God he'd worn his pants to bed last night as Carl's talented way of saying good morning, coupled with his own sluggish mind, had more than served to awaken his body to tingling rigidity. Had it been that long since he'd been laid? Apparently, if a simple pair of lips sucking on his...

"Ahem," he coughed, loudly, harshly. "Carl..."

"Van Helsing," Carl replied, horrified to hear it emerge as a breathy squeak rather than the manly growl he'd been trying for.

"Last night, " the hunter continued, grimly, desperately trying to get it all out before his still sluggish mind kicked into full wakefulness and caused him to die of terminal awareness. "Er...you had…_we_ had…dreams...bad...,"

"Nightmares, awful," Carl agreed, his own arms coming up to cross over his chest even as he took a step back into the tent. "Ah...our werewolves stepped in..."

"Apparently," the hunter growled, embarrassed, as he too took a step forward, toward his friar. "That joke I made...about humping each other's legs..."

"God no," Carl moaned, closing his eyes. "Tell me we didn't..."

"No! Nono," Van Helsing assured his friend hastily; his eyes closed as he dropped his head slightly and his mouth thinned in a lopsided wince. "I...I think I may have married you last night," he muttered, his hazel eyes opening to peek at the friar from beneath lowered brows.

"Oh. Well...," Carl blinked and swallowed. "As long as it's all proper and legal," he said, his voice catching in a little wheeze over the attempted joke.

Van Helsing's own breath caught on a rueful chuckle as well as his broad shoulders slumped from their rigid stance and he sank down onto one of the cots, pushing a hand through his rumpled hair.

"We can't go on like this, Carl," he murmured at last. "Certainly, we can't return to Rome behaving like this."

"Ah, well, you have a point of course," the friar agreed carefully as he edged over to his own rumpled cot and sank down upon it, pulling the cold blankets firmly about his torso as he did so. "Of course, we can't stay with the circus forever, either. I doubt Markus is going to give up...and there's the little problem of being surrounded by werewolves. Oh! And let's not forget our friend Nikko. Ugh!"

Van Helsing nodded grimly, sympathizing with the friar's shudder of disgust. "Nikko is a werewolf now, a monster in every sense of the word. I know how to deal with him."

"You do? Oh…." Carl eyes dropped to his fingers, clutching the blankets to him with white knuckles. The realization that they were discussing killing a man horrified the friar within him--the realist within him, though, was grimly resigned.

"I'll do my job," the hunter said simply. "As for Markus, our plans haven't changed. We have to get to Jinette before Markus gets to us."

"And the werewolves?" Carl leaned forward to stare into Van Helsing's eyes; he made it all sound so simple. It couldn't be that simple. "You said it yourself—we can't return to Rome as we are. It's getting worse all the time--if the werewolves try to take us back...how do we know if we'll be able to resist them?"

The hunter growled, shaking his head before he raised irritated eyes to the other man. "I don't have all the answers, Carl."

"But you're a hunter..."

"And you're a man who reads books. Didn't anything in all of those books suggest how to handle this?"

"Well I don't think this sort of situation has come up that frequently!" Carl retorted hotly. Thrusting himself up from his cot, he tugged awkwardly at the blankets caught beneath the mattress until they came free. Huffing and muttering beneath his breath he wrapped them securely about him before beginning to pace. Behind him, the blankets trailed along like a flannel train.

Van Helsing sighed as he scrubbed a hand over his jaw. In preparing him for his makeup, Madame Puce had insisted upon a close shave; irritated, he scratched at the itchy prickle of new stubble. He felt like growling and realizing that he did only served to heighten his bad mood. In all his years as a hunter, he'd never _once_ gotten into the situations that he now faced. He found himself wondering if this was the sort of trouble one had to deal with when traveling with a friar. Grudgingly, he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, trying to clear away the ludicrous idea.

"Right," Carl huffed, coming back to drag his protesting cot up close to Van Helsing's so that when he plopped down onto it, his knees pressed against the hunter's. "If we can make it back to Rome and to my lab, I'm certain I can find what went wrong with the antidote."

"Hmph," Van Helsing grunted, and then shrugged. "You make it sound easy."

"Oh, I don't think it'll be easy, not by a long shot. But if we're caught…well, Cardinal Jinette is a reasonable man," Carl began only to abruptly stop; sucking in his lower lip, he ruefully eyed the hunter. "Of course…the last time you got into a little trouble he _did_ sentence you to a week in Hell..."

"With great pleasure," Van Helsing muttered, and then shrugged. "At least we didn't break any sacred icons this time."

"Nooo. Of course, on the other hand, Devon was killed, we were both repeatedly infected by lycanthropy and then forced to become sideshow attractions, the innkeeper is dead, and we've got werewolves now prowling the countryside instead of staying in their nice remote village and...oh! Did I mention we're werewolves?"

A smile pulled at Van Helsing's mouth as he looked up at the friar and shrugged. "Pretty much the same old thing, then."

Carl sighed. "Pretty much."

* * *

Clarie giggled as Madame Puce arranged her makeup tray to her liking. She hadn't yet stopped laughing at the memory of the grim hunter made up like a china doll. Part of her dearly wished they could show off their newest clowns, she was certain they would be a great success.

Humming to herself, she steered carefully through the clutter of their wagon to reach the door, pushing it open with an expertly placed nudge of her hips. Madame Puce followed her down the three wooden steps leading to the ground, her own wrinkled face folding into a wide toothy grin. Cherie looked down at the old woman with a mock-serious scowl.

"You know, I can see within your evil mind! You just be good!"

"I'm always good," the miniature mistress of clowns assured her with a naughty wink.

"Good at being evil," Clarie sniffed. "Try not to make him too precious, you know he hates it!"

"Hmph. He should be grateful I could work miracles. You're the lucky one—the little friar with his blond hair and sweet blue eyes…. Mmmm!"

"You are such a wench!" Clarie laughed out loud as Madame Puce rolled her eyes and licked her lips. "Come on, Vermin wanted to get an early start."

Madame Puce stuck her nose in the air and made a job of pushing past Clarie to round the back of the wagon. Clarie followed, shaking her head as she watched the wiggle in the older woman's walk. Madame Puce must have been quite a vixen in her day.

"_Yoohoo_! Everyone decent in there?" the mistress of clowns yodeled as she approached the tent housing their two newest additions.

Inside the tent, Van Helsing's bowed head came up with a snap and a hunted look came into his eyes. Carl's mouth fell open as he leapt up from his cot, tripping over his flannel shrouds .

"N..no! I mean, just a moment!" Whirling about, Carl tossed his blankets aside in favor of using both hands on his pants. The hunter watched the blankets float through the air to drape heavily over himself and his cot. He sighed, thinking longingly of the old days, when the worst he had to contend with was a power-mad vampire lord and a few thousand of his spawn.

* * *

Madame Puce giggled behind her hand as the obdurate hunter folded his arms over his muscular chest and glowered down at her as if she'd blasphemed in church.

Clarie, the peacemaker, pasted a smile upon her face as she patted the hunter's arm (and silently admired the bulge of his bicep). "Now, you did it yesterday. And look at Carl, he's not putting up a fuss."

The hazel eyes flicked to the friar, who was currently turning around and around like a dog chasing his tail as he tried to catch the trailing end of his dangling suspenders. Carl had already been made up into his circus personae and, for all his protestations of disliking circuses and clowns, seemed to be enjoying his own metamorphosis immensely.

"It's not quite the same thing," Van Helsing said firmly, raising one dark eyebrow as Madame Puce giggled again. He was beginning to wish he'd put on a shirt as he wondered what she had to giggle about.

"Nooo," Clarie agreed with a smile. "But the costume wouldn't be quite so funny on Carl as it is on you, a big brawny hunter."

"I'm not here to be funny," the hunter growled.

"You're in a circus, of _course_ you're here to be funny," Clarie returned firmly. "That's the whole point."

"I'm _hiding_ in a circus. I haven't _joined_ a circus," Van Helsing said with awful politeness. "We won't be appearing in public, there's no need for us to be 'funny'." This last was said with a definite sniff.

"Oh for...," Clarie huffed, folding her own arms now as she glared up at Van Helsing. "You put on that costume!"

"No."

Carl paused in his rotations to look from Clarie to the hunter and back again. "It won't do any good, you know."

"What?" Turning from the infuriatingly stubborn hunter, Clarie fixed the friar with a glacial eye. "What won't?"

"Trying to force him to do something. It never works. You have to appeal to his sense of logic."

"Fine! You appeal, I'm appealed out."

With a propitiating smile for the girl, Carl edged up to his friend, eyeing his proud stance and his bulging muscles thoughtfully.

"Van Helsing..."

"No."

"Nono, of course not," Carl assured him with a smile. "They just don't understand why you're being so testy, that's all. Once I explain what happened when we woke up this morning...that little interlude between you and I...the chest thing, _you know_...I'm certain they'll understand why you're feeling a little..._uncomfortable_ about appearing in female clothing."

With a sweet smile, Carl patted Van Helsing's hip.

The gleam in the hunter's eye was half admiring and half murderous as the hunter's lips thinned in a grimace. "This isn't over, Carl," he growled as he sank down onto the cot before Madame Puce.

"Of course not, Gabriella," Carl smiled and batted his eyelashes.

* * *

Vermin's loud coughing bark of merriment sounded like a seal throwing up as he got his first good look at Van Helsing, in full makeup and costume, emerging from the tent followed by Carl. The dwarf had been coming to tell the foursome to get a move-on, they needed to pull up stakes and be on their way. Now, looking at what had taken so long, he was more than inclined to allow the women all the time they needed.

"Coo! That's rich!" he brayed, and slapped his thigh as he bent over in convulsive laughter.

Carl and Van Helsing eyed one another, the first with a feeling of pride, the latter with resigned acceptance.

"We need a babby carriage," Vermin wheezed. "I'll dress up as the babby and you two can push me in the pram!"

"I'd like to push you into a lake," Van Helsing growled. "Preferably with a bag of rocks about your neck."

Vermin only laughed harder as he staggered over to the hunter and embraced his bulging stomach. "There there..._sweet'eart_!" he brayed, the endearment coming out an octave higher as tears rolled freely down his face.

A half-strangled titter from Carl caused Clarie to begin to laugh and Madame Puce gave up the ghost, forgetting her ladylike giggle and instead laughing raucously.

The hunter sighed, shaking his head as he shoved Vermin off and stomped away on his little heels to the wagons waiting to depart. This time, he'd leave the packing to Carl. It would serve him right.

Carl wheezed as he moved to Vermin's side, staggering slightly, "You know...he's not...hha..happy with us. Definitely, not happy!"

"Coo, wot I'd give fer a picture," Vermin groaned, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "I'm sorry you two'll be leavin' the circus...you'd make a good act."

"Well, you can always use the costumes on someone else," Carl assured the dwarf, patting his shoulder.

"Aye...aye, I s'pose," Vermin sighed, shaking his head. "It's just no one'll be able ter pull off that outraged masculine pride thin' 'e's got. Cor, I think I shit me'self laughin' like that!"

"Ugh! Well I wouldn't ask Van Helsing to help you with it, if I were you," Carl gagged, backing away to a safe distance only to trip over a tent peg. Righting himself, he looked up at the looming canvas structure ruefully. "And he's left me to do the packing."

"Come on," Vermin snorted moistly, shoving the friar toward the tent so that he staggered again and tripped over his boat-like shoes. "I'll 'elp yer. We've got a town t' make t'night and we won't make it standin' 'ere like laughin'foolsall day."

"A town?" Carl asked as he gave up the idea of walking in such big shoes and kicked them off. "We're going to perform tonight?"

"Aye, we are," Vermin announced with satisfaction. "Large one too, even 'ave a monastery, not that I'm expectin' the good brothers ter attend."

"They might," Carl demurred as he entered the tent and began to collect his and Van Helsing's belongings. "I'd have come to see a circus if it came to the Palace."

Vermin's shaggy eyebrows raised and an avaricious gleam came to his beady brown eyes. "_Palace_, eh? Fancy a circus there, do they?"

"I'm sure you'd do very well!" Carl averred stoutly with a pleased smile. "And Van Helsing and I could stay with you the entire way, then."

Vermin made no further comments but it was plain the entire idea was appealing to him mightily. Carl turned to see Clarie and Madam Puce had also entered and were quickly and efficiently packing up. He smile at the bareback rider and was pleased when she blushed prettily and smiled back.

He wasn't so pleased when Madame Puce did as well, blowing him a moist kiss as she swished her hips meaningfully.

Hastily, Carl turned his attentions back to the chore in front of him, finding the dusty job infinitely preferable to what Madame Puce had in mind. Besides, he had a performance to think about...and how he was going to get Van Helsing to agree to it.

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

**Note: **

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play

Feedback: To **_Illudrae_**, **_Mystery Reviewer, Elwyndra, Billyez, MagRowan, Milady Dragon, and GlasTriskellion, _**thank you so much for your reviews! FF now has a policy that allows writers to be effusive with their thanks to reviewers via a reply button, so I won't wax lyrical with my thanks here! ;) As always, I would appreciate whatever suggestions/questions you may have.

To **_Chibi-Kaz_**, thank you for your beta.

Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

**SISTER WOLF 11**

A huff of exasperation blew Nikko's lips outward as he cast an impatient eye about the tidy village of Keely. It might be a major stopping place for travelers heading north, but he was finding it a major disappointment.

Why was it you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting some beady-eyed, hook-fingered, piety-spouting, bible thumping mother-whore of an Inquisitor nine days out of ten, but the one time you actually _wanted_ one of them, they couldn't be found for love nor money?

Angrily, the mercenary lifted the black skirts of his stolen cleric's robe and strode across the dirt street, shoving men and women alike from his path with indifference. He heard their squawks of affronted anger and he'd taken it into himself like a balm for his thwarted impatience. It pleased him all the more to hear the curses that died a choking death on their lips as they realized they were blaspheming against a monk. He wished them all a year in the deepest bowels of Hell, but he suspected he was a more likely candidate than they, more was the pity. A small dirty dog barely got out of the way of his swinging foot and he cursed it roundly, hearing the murmurs of the shocked pedestrians who now stood watching his progress. Let 'em gasp!

His destination was just ahead—the town's telegraph office might be little more than a four-sided box shoved in sideways, but it did have one allure the rest of the stinking town didn't have. It would get him in touch, at last, with the Inquisition.

It never occurred to the mercenary to wonder at his single-minded desire to bring the wrath of the Inquisition down upon Van Helsing and his friar. He'd fixed upon it as the best comeuppance for their breaking up his band, burying him alive, and thwarting his quick-riches schemes—he didn't see any reason to change his mind just because a little thing like his lycanthropy had been added to the mix. After all, it was Van Helsing and Carl who would be spending a well-earned sojourn with the Inquisition, not him, so what did it matter that he tended to bay at the moon and shed hair like a mangy mutt. He'd laugh all the harder to see them racked for the same thing.

Guffawing with ineffable pleasure, Nikko entered the cable office, leaving the gawpers still standing in the street to make of him what they would.

* * *

Markus took a deep breath as he and the other Hunters emerged from the forest onto the yellow plain and the rough dirt road that cut through it. He'd grown bone weary of the forest and its constant rigid embrace that hampered and delayed their progress. They'd lost too much time—they would not make Keely until nightfall. He prayed that they would find the town as they left it, quiet and unremarkable with no hint of their quarry. He would be able to relax, then, and take a bath before falling into a long dreamless sleep. 

The gray-haired Hunter blinked, sitting up straighter in the saddle as he considered those unexpected thoughts. There was a time when he could not get enough of the hunt, of the excitement and the need to become the best Hunter fielded by the Order. He wondered when that had changed. Was it before this mission? Or after? This mission, with its heady mix of clever elusive quarry and the blood ties of belonging that bound him to his quarry as tightly as thick rope coils. When he found Van Helsing…. Markus' hands tightened on the leather reins hard, making the leather squeak in protest as he set his heels to his horse's side, urging it to a gallop. Behind him the other Hunters, too, broke into an eager gallop, their horses' hooves striking the hollow earth like the rumble of thunder.

He could nap like an old man, fat and content in the sun, another time. Today, he was a Hunter and his prey was just ahead.

* * *

Van Helsing scratched his exposed calf, grimacing at the whistle of air about it and other regions not typically available to the casual breeze. He sat upon the buckboard of Vermin's wagon, sprawled against the hard backrest because his costume's 'stomach' wouldn't allow him to be seated upright. He had found that the sack of rags that formed his stomach also didn't sit well on his thighs, so he had to sit spread-legged as well so that it rested between. He could only imagine what he looked like. 

Carl rode beside him, squeezed between Vermin who handled the horses, and his sprawled friend. Every so often, he'd squirm, digging his elbow into the thick padded stomach that seemed determined to shove him off the bench. When the wagon hit a particularly nasty pothole, he _was_ pushed off, landing in the small foot well beside Van Helsing's hairy naked leg. Unrepentant, he used that leg to haul himself back up into his seat, shoving his bum backward into the small hole. Now the hoop that formed his own stomach was vying with Van Helsing's and Vermin shouted over the noise of the jouncing wagon as he dug a sharp elbow at Carl.

"'Ave a care, Shave Pate!"

"Well…if Van Helsing…would just….move a little…!"

"Where would you have me move, Carl?"

"I thought…another wagon!"

"Can't do it, friar!" Vermin shouted, his face wreathed with a broad grin. They're all full up. We pack everythin' we've got in 'em and every wagon is full, front an' back."

"It feels like you've packed everything you've got in Van Helsing's stomach!" Carl huffed, shoving all the harder at his friend, this time with both hands pressing down on his stomach. The hunter in turn slapped Carl's hands which made the friar yelp, his face turning a bright red that gave his clown makeup a pink glow.

"I'm not giving birth, Carl! Pushing at it won't make it go down!" the hunter snarled. "Just remember, this was your idea. I said no but you had to bring up last night."

The friar glowered petulantly as he poked at the hunter with one finger. "You're making it very difficult to respect you this morning!"

Hazel eyes turned to Carl's, narrowing slightly. "I'm not the one who suckles like a babe in his sleep," he growled, raising one delicately arched eyebrow.

Carl's blue eyes widened; horrified, he darted a look at the dwarf before returning to the hunter to hiss, "Never mind! Just…don't bring that up! I'm begging you Van Helsing!"

A satisfied smile curled the hunter's lips as he settled back and closed his eyes, turning his face to the warmth of the sun above them.

"Not too much further ter Keely," Vermin promised Carl who rolled his eyes with a sigh and settled on the very edge of the bench, hunched over with his elbow on his knee and chin in hand with weary resignation.

* * *

Many many miles away, in the stone catacombs beneath the Palace, were the cells the Order reserved for evil. Monsters of all types and descriptions resided in the cells, each brought to that point by the inexorable efforts of the Order's hunters. Each of the monsters was judged at the time of their internment as being either redeemable or irredeemable. Those that were considered salvageable were always human/monster hybrids, it was hoped that such hybrids still possessed a soul that could be saved—something lacking in the 'pure' monsters. 

They were assigned Handlers—grim men who worked to separate the human from the monster, sometimes for years. Sometimes they were successful, sometimes not. No hybrid left the catacombs until they are successful, but life became easier for those on the path to redemption.

Cardinal Jinette shivered fastidiously as he wiped his palms against his scarlet robe. The thickly woven cloth was warm against his skin, but he always felt a shudder of superstitious dread when he sat before the woman who occupied one of the 'nicer' cells within the catacombs. They called her Sybl, though he knew that wasn't her name.

The woman was a Fury, half woman/half beast. She was unique in that, while her beast was as bloodthirsty and unrelenting as any Fury, the woman was blessed with the Sight. She could ride on the backs of birds and see with her own eyes what their beady eyes saw in flight. Her help was invaluable in keeping tabs on the Order's members who were on especially perilous journeys. She seemed to enjoy being the Order's Eyes; but every so often, Jinette was reminded that the woman before him was still partially a monster, when the relish she took in imparting bad news seemed a little _too_ keen.

It was a hard choice to make--to use her gifts and expose the Order's doings to an outsider, an enemy; or, to allow possibly dire peril to come upon them unawares.

The choice became much easier, however, when the subjects were Carl and Van Helsing.

"They have found temporary sanctuary," Sybl murmured; her dark eyes were closed as if in sleep but her thin fingers tipped with long jagged nails scratched against the course stool she sat upon, peeling thin threads of wood up with each pass. "They travel with the circus again." A smile curled the woman's thin lips before her tongue slipped out to lap at them. "The friar is angry. He argues with the hunter."

"The circus…they will bring Van Helsing and Carl to Keely?" Jinette interrupted, hitching forward on his own stool to lean closer to the bars separating them, but no too close.

Sybl's lids opened to reveal eyes that were completely black and devoid of light or compassion. Her beast was very much to the fore and Jinette leaned back, keeping well out of range. Her smile widened.

"I have told you many times, I do not see the future. Only the present."

"Yes yes," Jinette huffed, his blue yes snapping. "But you are able to tell where they are headed. Do they bring Van Helsing to Keely?"

Sybl's eyes crinkled, just a little, as she settled back on her stool, her nails digging deeper into the raw wood of her chair, gouging out spikes of wood now. "I think it is time to talk of the pet you promised me."

Grim humor touched Jinette's eyes and mouth as he too settled back and folded his arms. "I do not recall such a promise. But I do think it is time to talk about new accommodations," he countered. "Something perhaps a little deeper inside the catacombs, where you can spend months in peaceful isolation and not be bothered by so many comings and goings of others."

Abruptly the woman's eyes closed again, and her hands stilled completely. "You are cruel," she murmured.

"If provoked," Jinette agreed. "Tell me what you see."

He could see her vexation, kept well hidden, except for the renewed _scratch scratch _of her long fingers upon the wooden stool. "They will bring him to Keely. They are already on their way."

"And Markus?"

"He too heads for the village."

"The werewolves?"

Sybl shifted on her stool, her scratching fingers stilling for several seconds before resuming their motion. "I cannot see them now, but I suspect they are also bound for Keely. In Keely, all parts of the puzzle will at last come together." Her words ended with a curious lilt, sinking into the stone walls and floor of her cell. Jinette watched as the corners of her mouth turned up, ever so slightly, giving her the appearance of a satisfied cat.

He nodded, once, before pushing his stool back and standing up. Looking down on the woman, sitting still upon her stool with her dark eyes closed, she gave no hint of the beast within her bearing. Cynicism, with a touch of pity, darkened his eyes and thinned his lips.

"I will see that you are given a piece of fur. You may pet that. Yes?"

The small smile on the woman's lips deepened and the very tip of her pink tongue slipped out to lick them. Without opening her eyes, she nodded. "Yes. For now."

He left her there, with the Handlers and the others like her. He suspected he would always leave her thus.

* * *

The sun was touching the horizon and painting it with a rainbow of color when the circus pulled up at the outskirts of Keely. Carl gingerly eased his aching body down from the wagon seat, grimacing his thanks as Van Helsing helped him. Rubbing unabashedly at his pummeled rear, the friar looked across the open field to the town only a quarter mile distant. 

"Why don't we pull up closer?" he asked Vermin who had bounced down from the wagon without apparent signs of stiffness and was now rubbing his hands together delightedly.

"Nay, mate! It doesn't do ter camp too close, takes the fun and mystery right out of it! You'll see—come mornin' they'll be linin' up ter see wot's wot! We've got work t' do tonight t' be ready by mornin'!"

"Work?" Carl whimpered his hand rubbing faster over the pulsing ache in his bottom. "But..."

"Come on, Carl," Van Helsing slung an arm about his friend, pulling him around and leading him toward the center of activity. "They know what they're doing, it will go quickly."

All around them, men and women were scurrying, circling the wagons, grooming animals, digging the grooved rings, and erecting tents that would house attractions. The two men were drafted to help with the latter and found the work to be enjoyable as the circus denizens shared stories and laughter with them. Even Carl found he forgot his aching posterior as he laughed out loud more than once.

And, if they were enjoying the company of their new acquaintances, so were the circus folk finding unexpected and new things to approve of in their newest members. Carl's marvelously creative mind seemed to take to the problems of faulty hardware and logistics like a duck to water. He took it upon himself to fix what was broken and to make better what was not. The fact that he wasn't in his lab and lacked the usual tools that would make such tasks easier only seemed to spur his flight of genius to greater heights. And, he found a kindred spirit in Vermin—soon the two of them were arguing, shouting, cajoling, laughing, and apparently having a genuine good time.

Van Helsing shook his head with a fond smile upon his face as he turned his muscles to the harder tasks of setting up. With relief, both he and Carl had rid themselves of their ridiculous costumes long ago and were now back in trousers and sweaters. Only the white face of their disguises remained, and those they would not remove again except to sleep.

The hunter's willingness to work and laugh did a great deal to set any lingering doubts about him to rest; Thor, the circus strong man, set a contest in motion to test his muscles against the hunter's. So far, he was holding an extremely narrow margin of victory; the rest of the circus divided itself in shouting for their favorites as they moved on to hammering tent pegs. The number of mallet strikes needed to bury the peg was tallied and the smaller final number would determine the winner.

Thor growled and snarled at his opponent as he flexed his huge muscles and postured with the heavy mallet. Across from him, Van Helsing sneered and set his feet, hefting the mallet to his shoulder where it bounced on the ridge of muscle. All around them, money was exchanging hands—the odds favorite was Thor but the crowd was fickle.

The tent had been laid out, the pegs set, now the two men stood facing one another across the collapsed opening—they would circle the perimeter, meeting at the back.

"Are you gents ready?" Madame Puce shouted, her absurd flowerpot hat teetering precariously on top of her head. Pointed towards the sky, she held a ridiculously tiny pistol that could serve no other purpose than to make a bit of noise.

"Aye!" Thor grunted, setting the head of his mallet against the peg.

"Ready," Van Helsing answered, doing the same.

"Get set! GO!" She shouted and fired the little pistol.

_WHAM! WHUMPF!_ Both mallets hit the pegs, driving them deep into the ground. Immediately, both men whirled to face the next striking them hard enough to send them jolting into the hard earth. The crowd roared and catcalled alternately as they jostled and pushed forward to follow the contestants about the perimeter. With every strike of his mallet, Thor growled, his voice like thunder as his huge muscles rippled and the sweat flew in a glittering spray. On the other side of the tent, Van Helsing shouted, bringing the mallet in a whistling arc from the ground to the peg, driving it in and then moving on.

The air was electric, money flew faster, the cheers and jeers grew louder as the two combatants approached the rear of the tent.

Carl was waiting there, jumping up and down now, shouting for Van Helsing; Vermin stood beside him, his rusty voice rose in urgent shouts for Thor "ter get a move on!"

**_WHUMP!WHAM!WHUMP! _**Closer and closer, only three pegs separated them, then two, the crowd shoved forward, almost standing over the last peg as both men whirled, hammers already whistling down...**_WHUMPWHUMP! _**A cloud of dust flew up, making the crowd cough and wheeze as they strained forward, batting aside the dirt haze to peer at the peg...

"_It's Van Helsing_!" Carl cried, forgetting himself. "He's won!" Rushing forward, the friar leapt upon his friend, dragging up his arm to flourish it. The hunter staggered; letting his mallet go, he sagged to the ground, his arm pulling out of Carl's grasp as he settled with a dusty thump. Gasping for breath he grinned at the strong man who followed him to the ground. Their faces were streaked with sweat and dirt, their clothing soaked with sour sweat, and their muscles shook with the palsy of fatigue. It was evident to everyone--they were having the time of their lives.

With ill-grace, Vermin handed over the cash for the bets he'd lost. Van Helsing watched with an evil smirk and the dwarf growled at him. Stumping over, Vermin raised his hand over the hunter's head as if to swat him, only to end up thumping him on the shoulder.

"Not just a pretty face, are ya," he growled. "Well rest up, cos there 'r' more tents ter get up!"

"We'll manage," Van Helsing said, wincing as Thor reached over to thump him heartily on the back.

* * *

The circus worked well into the night preparing for the crowd they expected the following day. Carl marveled at the unswerving dedication he saw all about him. They were so certain of their audience; they poured everything they had into preparing for it with no guarantees. And it was hard work; they sweated and strained over their preparations for hours until at last, around midnight, Vermin announced they were ready. 

The simple field had been transformed with banners and gaily painted placards. The wagons were adorned with colorful posters boasting of the breathtaking attractions to be found within the enclosure for the merest pittance. Alluring tents that promised amazing sights within stood ready for the first thrill seekers to poke hesitant heads inside. And over all, the largest tent stood in the very center. It was colossal, could easily hold a hundred seated viewers, who would be privy to the very best the circus had to offer. Splendid shows of pageantry and daring that would wring gasps of astonishment and bellows of laughter from the viewers...

"No."

"But Van Helsing..."

"No."

"C'mon, mate! Think of the kiddies!"

"I'm thinking of Markus. No."

The three men were in Carl's and Van Helsing's borrowed tent. The hunter was soaking in a tub of hot water--his tub was a sawed-off barrel that necessitated he keep his knees folded under his chin. He didn't mind the knees, the water lapping over his aching muscles and dirty skin more than made up for it. He did mind, though, being importuned by Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum while he bathed. How many times did he have to say 'no'? While he didn't regret these people losing their former fear of him, he wondered at what point he'd lost their respect as well.

"Lean forward," Carl huffed his bangs from his face as he wrung out the sponge Van Helsing had set aside, then dropped down to his knees beside the tub.

"What?"

"I'll scrub your back."

"Carl."

"Well you can't reach it, can you? Not in this narrow tub. And it's not as if I haven't seen your back before—lean forward."

With a reluctant grimace, Van Helsing did as he was told, groaning as his abused muscles protested mightily.

Vermin moved forward, his mouth falling open to renew the argument, only to fall back as Carl shook his head. A silent conversation of seconds took place between them, then,

"Well, I'll be runnin', then," the dwarf muttered, eyeing Carl cagily. "Sleep well."

"And you," Carl answered absently, already concentrating on scrubbing the broad expanse of muscle and gleaming skin before him. He put some effort into the scrubbing strokes and listened to the hunter's small noises with each pass. "You had a good time out there," he observed quietly, then shook his head. "But you're going to be good and sore in the morning."

A ripple of sleek skin and muscle preluded the hunter's shrug. "It won't be the first time."

"I've never seen you laugh so easily," Carl continued, his voice thoughtful. "I enjoyed seeing you laugh, you don't do it often enough."

Van Helsing's head half turned toward Carl. "I laugh with you."

"Oh yes, I know. But, not often, and never for very long."

"Hunting monsters doesn't provide many opportunities for a belly laugh." He shifting in the tub; arching his back, he groaned. "That's good, Carl. If I don't get out now, I'll fall asleep in here."

Dropping the sponge, Carl rose to his feet and scuttled to get a towel. As the hunter rose from the tub, the water sluiced from him in shining cascades. He felt like leaden weights had been attached to his body and he moved sluggishly as he stepped out of the tub.

"Here," Carl said, returning with the towel to drape it over the hunter's broad back.

"Thanks." With ruthless economy, the hunter dried off. The only clothing he owned, besides the costume, was currently drip-drying after a thorough pummeling in the laundry tub by Clarie. With a shrug, he tossed the towel over a chair back and climbed into bed nude, groaning with pleasure as he stretched out and felt the cool scratch of the sheets over his skin.

"Here, roll over," Carl instructed, rolling up his sleeves.

"Mmph?"

"Roll over, I'll rub your back. That way you won't be so stiff tomorrow."

A hazel eye appeared over the soft swell of the pillow to fix on Carl suspiciously. "Carl. You wouldn't be trying to get around me, would you?"

"Get around you?" The friar blinked, confused innocence exuding from every pore.

"Hmph." Shaking his head with a snort, the hunter slid his arms under the pillow and settled flat on his stomach. "Have you ever given a massage?"

Settling himself gingerly upon the side of the cot at Van Helsing's hip, Carl huffed with the sneer of the well-read upon his lips. "It's only a back rub, how hard can it be?"

"Mm. I've seen what happens to your guinea pigs in the labs, Carl. Just remember, slow and easy."

"Shh! Just settle back and let me get to it!" Carefully, Carl folded down the sheet until it draped over the rounded contour of the hunter's buttocks. "This might be a bit uncomfortable at first," the friar warned as he began to rub the broad shoulders.

"Mmph..mph...mno, feels good," Van Helsing grunted, sounding genuinely surprised.

With a smirk upon his face, Carl settled down to work at the hunter's shoulders, rubbing and kneading the firm flesh; the smirk segued to small genuine smile as he felt the large muscles begin to relax. He spent quite a bit of time on them, until he heard Van Helsing's breathing steady and grow slower and deeper. Then he moved down to his back; sliding his hands over the hot skin, he marveled at the power of the long sheets of muscle he felt beneath. Smoothing over the white roped scars on either side of the hunter's spine, he shook his head.

"Van Helsing?"

"Mmm?"

"These scars. Where did you get them?"

The hunter shifted on the cot in a half-realized shrug, his words emerging slurred with sleep and comfort. "I don't remember, Carl."

"They're quite deep; even after four years they haven't faded. And how they're situated...it's odd. It reminds me of something..."

The hunter made no reply, and the half smile on Carl's lips deepened as he listened to his friend's soft breathing. Determined to make a good job of it, he left the mystery of the two scars to move his hands down to the small of the warm back. There was still a fair amount of tension there, and he dug in, pressing firmly, his sliding hands causing heat to build up and redden the unexpectedly soft skin. Van Helsing made no sign of awareness and as Carl worked, the spirit of curiosity seized him. He examined it, shook his head over it, banished it as silly, only to have it creep back. Feeling almost sacrilegious, he continued to rub with one hand while the other wandered over to the folded sheet.

"Van Helsing?"

Nothing but soft breathing.

Taking a deep breath himself, the friar allowed his hand to touch the sheet, and then lifted it carefully as his eyes slid sideways to view the now exposed buttocks. He'd seen Van Helsing naked before, but he'd never actually _looked_. Now, he couldn't resist the chance to 'peek under the skirt', so to speak.

"Oh!" Well...Van Helsing appeared to have a rather _nice_ bottom. One might say...pert. Rounded. As bottoms went, almost pre..

"Carl?"

"_Eeep_!" The sheet fluttered down from startled fingers only to completely miss the mark and pool about Van Helsing's thighs, leaving his bottom exposed. Horrified, Carl pounced, grabbing at the sheet and catching a good deal of thigh in the process, he yanked it up to cover the exposed flesh. It billowed and he slapped at it, and experienced another jolt of horror as his hand met resoundingly against the hunter's right cheek.

"Ow! Carl!"

"Oh my God!" the friar gasped.

"Carl, did you just spank me?"

tbc


	12. Chapter 12

**Note: Sorry for taking so long to update! After getting out of the habit during the holidays, it was hard going to get the muse back! This one's got a lot of unaccustomed angst to it, hopefully all the soul searching won't put you off!**

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play

Feedback: To **_Wrenn, Runts Gal, Seadragon 68, MagRowan, FKitty (Welcome and good for you!),Milady Dragon, Elwyndra, MysteryReviewer, and Illudrae , _**thank you so much for your reviews! Thank you for taking the time and energy—it's **_much_** appreciated! I hope you enjoy this new offering.

Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

**SISTER WOLF 12**

Carl lay on his cot, blankets pulled up to his chin, knees almost tucked into his chest, and thought hard upon the days past.

So much had changed in the past three weeks, and most of the really huge changes were so subtle as to almost be covered up by the larger, gory aspects of their mission.

When Carl thought of himself, he pictured himself as a relatively mild-mannered, studious, undeniably brilliant, intuitive, thoughtful man who was not given to excess nor self-delusion. He had his faults, of course—he admitted freely that though he was a friar, he was truly not a devoutly religious man. He took the Ten Commandments with a grain of salt and a propitiating shrug for his Maker. Between himself and God, he could admit he was as interested in the more enjoyable aspects of life as the next man, considering them welcome gifts from his Heavenly Father and not to be sneered at. True, the bible made it clear that gluttony, fornication, lying, etc. were all sins; but, surely it was also true there was some room for interpretation, for magnitude. It wasn't gluttony to enjoy a hearty meal when one was hungry. And sometimes the truth did more harm than a simple white lie. These things needed to be taken into account. As for the dichotomy of his friary vows and his enjoyment of a good rowdy roll in the hay, he had always thought that if God had truly meant for holy men to be utterly chaste, he wouldn't have made the act of procreation quite so enjoyable. As it was, Carl balanced the scarcity of the chance for sex with the actual act when he did get the chance, and considered it pretty much even.

Yes, if Carl were strictly honest with himself, he had to admit that he was the last man to which the label "zealot" could be attached. His was a comfortable and comforting balancing act wherein he was neither a sinner nor a saint.

But lying now upon his rickety groaning cot, faced with the quiet still night, he found his mind troubled as it had never been in the past. This mission had forced him to deal with so many things outside his normal scope of dealings that he was left in a whirl.

He suspected that despite his having taken care of himself so well in his set-to with Nikko, it would take him a good long while to come to terms with the memory of it. He found it very hard not to dwell on the dark emotions the mercenary evoked within him—emotions that he reluctantly identified as hate. He'd never hated anyone in his life; he was horrified at the scope and breadth of the emotion now.

Additionally, he was becoming aware of a certain timidity growing within him that was the direct result of this mission. He was the first to admit that he would never be a daredevil, but he felt he was reasonably courageous. True, the better part of valor frequently dictated a hasty retreat from pressing dangers, but that was common sense. Not this creeping paralysis and mewling watchfulness he could feel chilling his guts whenever he thought of the last three weeks or what was to come. The Church was very specific about what constituted sin, there wasn't an awful lot of wiggle room. He was pretty certain that being a werewolf would be considered one of the more egregious sins. True, he didn't feel any different, didn't feel any more evil or wicked than he had before he'd become a werewolf. But, maybe he wasn't the best judge any longer? What if he couldn't truly judge and he was, in point of fact, appallingly wicked? He couldn't tear his mind from the possibility that all would not turn out well. Just the thought of becoming a guest of the Inquisition's questionable hospitality made him physically ill. But shouldn't he welcome the chance to be purified?

And, if all of that weren't enough, he had to deal with the new and odd impulses that seemed to creep up on him at the worst possible times. He'd actually _looked_ at Van Helsing's bottom. He'd never, ever looked at another man's bottom, never felt the remotest urge to do so. Yet, horrifyingly, it had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. He'd been curious, it was there, conveniently to hand, so he'd looked. Simple.

His skin burned at the memory of being caught in his ogling and he pulled his blanket up even higher so that it covered his face.

Of course, Van Helsing had been good about the whole thing. He'd just told Carl to go to bed, tomorrow would be a long day.

Sighing, Carl buried his face deep into his pillow. He'd lain awake for an hour now, his mind flitting from one worry to another. He was exhausted, but he dreaded closing his eyes because he didn't know what would happen next. He'd been tossed and tumbled about so much he hardly knew which end (God help him!) was up any longer.

Carl hugged himself hard, curling up tightly, and admitted his worst fear to himself. The need for some semblance of security, for contact, closeness. He reasoned that he was missing his lab and the other craftsmen. Now, out of his element, of course he was feeling a trifle needy. That had to be it. He wasn't cut out for field work—he'd told them that, but of _course_ they hadn't listened. Save the world? Oh, let's get Carl to do it! He's got nothing better to do. Brother Sebastion's out potting bunnies in the garden and Carl's working on weapons that will actually work—the choice of who should go is obvious!

He needed a distraction, something to utterly consume his thoughts. Huffing and growling to himself, he flounced about in his bed and resolutely forced his mind to summon the image of Clarie. Undeniably, he could admire the abstract picture of her neat trim figure in her tiny provocative costume of tulle and spangled tights, Oh Yes, definitely. A smile crept up over his face and he wriggled into his pillow more firmly as he expanded his vision of the bare back rider to include himself. Mmmm!

As he devoted himself to imagining what the kiss would be like, lingering on duration, firmness, wet or dry, he dimly became aware of a small niggling feeling. Like an itch, the moment he recognized it, its intensity grew until he couldn't ignore the watchful presence that was always with him now. Waiting just below the surface of consciousness, alert, silent, anxious.

"_Now_ what?" he wailed in a furious whisper to the waiting werewolf. "I'm a _man_, not a wolf. I don't know how to give you what you want, and I know it's not what _I_ want! Van Helsing has gone to bed and his wolf is certainly not up to playing with you tonight!"

The wolf's blue eyes blinked and a soft questioning _chiff_ fluttered the furred lips.

"You don't even understand me, do you?" he groaned with a horrified fascination for something so alien and yet so much apart of himself. "It's all just noise to you and doesn't help at all."

Understanding or no, it was plain the wolf had had enough. An impatient huff of air escaped it, then the blue eyes closed and the massive white head tilted back. The wolf's throat pulsed in a long drawn out howl; watching the wolf within the darkness of his own mind, Carl was enthralled by its beauty and need.

Across the silent darkened space that separated their cots, Van Helsing's eyes snapped open. In the low light, his eyes glowed with a strong golden glare. In the second between being supine upon his cot and rising to his feet, the human sheered away easily and the wolf arose. The werewolf was pleased that the past pain of metamorphosis did not occur this time, no doubt because of the easing of the boundaries between them with sleep as well as the human's empathy with the One.

His long dark ears twitched, swiveling back toward the other cot. With a huff, he turned, stepping easily over the rumpled cot, his long claws trailing behind to snag the blankets and drag them to the ground behind him.

Carl hugged his pillow tightly about his ears as he tried to shut out the sound of his wolf's ululating howl. It evoked feelings within him that he didn't want to look at too closely; he suspected the line between he and the wolf were blurred enough without admitting the needs they both shared.

With his eyes tightly squeezed shut and his ears blocked, he wasn't aware of the black wolf's presence. Rather, it was the abrupt cessation of the white wolf's howls that alerted him. Reluctantly, he looked inward and mentally groaned at the image of the white wolf standing, looking up at him with obvious expectation in its blue eyes. The soft touch of rough pads against the exposed skin of his neck an instant later made him shudder strongly.

"_Nooo_," he moaned into his pillow. "This can't be happening!"

A soft wash of air answered him, the warmth of it caressing his back even through the thin blanket he clutched to his shoulders and the shirt he'd worn to bed. Desperately, Carl squeezed his eyes tight shut and curled even more tightly into himself.

He could feel the breathless silence ghosting over his skin, stretching unbearably tighter and tighter with each second's passing until he couldn't stand it any longer and _had_ to look. One eye creaked open, sliding to the side like a whipped curr as he slowly, reluctantly turned his head.

Blacker than the night's shadows, Van Helsing's wolf stood above his cot, waiting; its golden eyes thoughtful, the dark muscular body at ease as though the werewolf could wait all night.

"Oh my God," Carl breathed, shaking his head. "Nonono!"

The black head tilted slightly and the dark ears canted forward. A huff of air, with a clear questioning tone, washed over him.

"No! **Bad wolf**!" Carl growled, and curled up even tighter until he could hardly breathe. "Go back to sleep! There's nothing for you here, nothing!"

Within his mind, Carl heard a growling huff from the white wolf, almost immediately followed by another coming from the dark monster behind him. Plainly, they were out of patience with him.

"I don't _care_!" friar snarled at the white wolf. "This is _my_ life, not yours! How will I explain this to Van Helsing? My God, I looked at the man's bottom! How do I explain curling up with his wolf?"

The nicety of the situation was apparently too subtle for either wolf, because in the next instant, long strong fingers seized the bottom of Carl's cot and easily overturned it, causing him to roll out head over heels onto the blanket-strewn floor."

"**_Ouch_**, damn it!" He immediately sat up, spitting with anger, only to be shoved back down by the dark wolf who settled at his side with boneless grace. A muscular arm dropped on top of the friar, pinning him like a squirming bug to the ground as the black werewolf curled about him. The dark muzzle dropped onto his shoulder with a final growling huff that said clearer than any words, "_Shut up! Go to sleep!_"

"No! I'm not an animal. I sleep in a _bed_! If I need a hug, I pick a nice woman and enjoy the evening with her--I _was_ enjoying a nice woman before you interrupted! I don't curl up with drooling, shedding, growling wolves on the floor! What will Van Helsing say? What would _Cardinal Jinette_ say? 'Oh, excuse me, Your Grace? Why are Van Helsing and I sleeping together on the floor? Well, have you ever heard the term 'puppy pile'?' **_Get off me_**!"

One golden eye, disconcertingly close, opened to fix steadily upon Carl's. He stared, fascinated by the glow within it. Almost insolently, a long red tongue lapped out of the soft muzzle to drag wetly over his throat. Then the eye closed again.

The friar's blue eyes narrowed and his chin set stubbornly. "Fine. Go to sleep. Sleep tight. As soon as you're asleep, I'll get back in _urk_!"

A sudden contraction of the wolf's long arm about his torso pulled Carl solidly into the furry body and cut off his growling complaints. The intent was clear; with ill grace, Carl fell silent, biting his lower lip hard. His skin itched with the urge to move, to put distance between himself and the monster whose hot breath ghosted over his skin with each exhalation. He felt a shuddering superstitious dread of it mingled with a dismaying sense of what had to be unnatural ease that curled about his worried thoughts, smothering them one by one. Only months ago, he and Van Helsing would have killed such a beast. Now, they were no different than those animals. Perhaps worse, because they understood werewolves better than most, and yet they sought to avoid the judgment they'd brought to others with the same curse. Didn't that make a mockery of their right to bring judgment? Carl shook his head as a lethargy settled over his tumbling thoughts, dulling and stupefying his mind until, much against his will, he lapsed into sleep.

Against his shoulder, the black wolf heaved a sigh and settled into grateful slumber.

* * *

Dawn's light was preceded by a sleepy peace that befuddled the mind and weighted the limbs with velvet restraints. It took real effort for Van Helsing to recognize that he was asleep and then to do something about it. Normally, he awoke cleanly, his senses coming into sharp immediate focus; this morning was different. He was warm, for a start. It seemed more often than not that he was chilled when he woke with a cold that no amount of blankets could alleviate. It settled in the old wounds, making them ache with a bone-deep throbbing that drove him out of bed and into boisterous activity that would eventually dull the pain. 

Now, he tentatively stretched, grunting with surprised pleasure as he realized he would be spared the usual aches and pains. From head to toe, he was warm and comfortable. A memory of Carl's hands, easing his tired muscles, came to him and he felt a deep sense of gratitude to the friar.

As his consciousness lazily swam up to full wakefulness, he became aware of a warm limp weight draped over him that seemed to settle in every nook and cranny like a luxurious velvet drape. His senses were slower to awaken and his eyes refused to open; even without their input, though, he was certain of the source of that weight. Oddly, It didn't feel awkward to find Carl draped over him; he drifted as his mind pondered that it _should_. Carl was not a snuggler. He was a blanket hog and the rare times he and Van Helsing shared a bed, he invariably slept curled about himself in a tight and uncomfortable-looking ball with the blanket snugged in over all the bits and pieces like the shell of a turtle. The closest the friar came to snuggling was when, in the wee small hours of the night, while still asleep, he uncurled enough to place his feet firmly against the wall and to push outward, gradually shoving himself and his unwilling bed partner toward the edge of the mattress. It took only one time for Van Helsing to end up on the floor for him to ensure the friar slept on the outside of the bed from then on. Of course, with Carl having his own way of looking at things, sometimes that worked, sometimes the friar slipped in ahead of him and claimed the wall with such obvious, vindicated pleasure, the hunter just rolled his eyes and let him have his way.

Van Helsing grunted and wiggled his toes, then moved his legs slowly, as sensation returned. Carl was settled over his torso, one leg between his own. He could feel his own thigh venturing into places he'd never planned to explore, yet the unplanned intimacy didn't disgust him though, again, he thought it should. He felt no conscious sense of desire for the body sprawled over him, but he did appreciate the comfort and warmth it brought. When had his instinct for being a lone wolf changed? When had closeness become natural to him?

He was more awake now; he could feel the bumpy uneven ground beneath the thin blankets and the wrinkled canvas. He frowned, wondering why they were on the ground. Then, the events of the past night filtered into his thoughts and a smile curved up over the edges of his mouth as he recalled Carl's horror at being caught peeking at his friend. He'd wanted to tease the friar unmercifully, but he had been too tired to keep his eyes open. As it was, he imagined the friar had spent a good portion of the night in a rigor of embarrassment and self-reproach. Bearing that in mind, and knowing Carl's devoted search for comfort, he doubted the friar had forsaken the minimally more comfortable cot to sleep on the ground with him willingly.

One dark eyebrow arched as the other dropped into a sardonic frown as this line of reasoning called to mind another surprise awakening and the cause of it.

"You did it again, didn't you," he growled at the dark presence within himself. It didn't answer, but he could feel it, silent and watchful with an all too easily perceived air of disdain and cunning. It would be amusing if not for the realization that the wolf within was finding it easier and easier to escape. His control was slipping; and while the wolf seemed to confine itself to harmless antics thus far, the memory of Anna and the method of her death still haunted him. In the instant that Dracula's antidote had brought him to his senses, in that instant that he'd shared full wakefulness with the wolf, it had changed from a thoughtless killing brute. But it was still a murderer. And he didn't trust it. It would do what was right for it and the One it had chosen to pack with, regardless of his will or the situation. He could not allow it to continue.

Carl made murmuring noises of protest and snuggled closer, his fingers closing tightly on Van Helsing's shoulder. Unthinkingly, he gathered the friar close to him, holding him tightly even as he noted the act with a sense of detachment, as though he were watching someone else cuddle the friar. He frowned, realizing that while he wasn't sexually aroused by Carl's vicinity, a pleasant coiling of heat and electricity pranged within his chest and belly. He growled as he wondered how much of this came from himself and how much was from the wolf.

He squinted into the watery grey light that entered their tent through the loose flap, blinking several times to clear his vision before looking down at the blond head pillowed on his chest. Carl's sleeping face was stubbled, and he was drooling. Hardly the picture of angelic beauty. And yet…the sight of Carl's face made him smile as an unfamiliar sense of contentment warmed him. He raised his head and tentatively pressed his lips to the friar's forehead. The warmth of the kiss traveled throughout his body, bringing a sense of lethargic peace and the sense of inevitability.

Inevitability? Van Helsing shook his head angrily—nothing was fated. Nothing!

"Carl, wake up!"

"Mmmph," the friar's snuffled against his chest, curling in tighter as he rubbed his face against the hunter's bare skin. Van Helsing watched as the friar's nose twitched at the hair that tickled his nose and felt Carl's warm moist breath hitch, then gust out. "Van Helsing?" The words were little more than a sigh, but the depth of resignation in them brought a commiserating grimace to the hunter's mouth.

"In the flesh," the hunter assured him grimly. He hitched one shoulder, making the friar's head bobble slightly. "Rise and shine, Carl."

Without his usual morning complaints, Carl rolled to his side and up to his feet. He kept his eyes studiously off Van Helsing as he staggered drowsily through his morning ablutions.

Likewise, the hunter quietly went about his own tasks as if the friar and their unexpected waking were an everyday occurrence. What remained unsaid between them loomed like a third person—large, unfamiliar, and annoying.

It was only after Carl finished dressing in his costume that he hazarded a glance in Van Helsing's direction, noting the hunter had dressed in a sweater and slacks and was holding his hat and leather coat.

"Er…Van Helsing?"

"Not now, Carl."

"But…shouldn't you be wearing…"

"I said not now."

Frowning and more than a little miffed, the friar opened his mouth again only to have the hunter brush past him to exit the tent, leaving Carl blinking in surprise, standing amidst the muddled blankets on the ground.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

**Note: I am evil and should probably be destroyed! I left this in the worst possible place, but it was getting' too darned long! I promise, I'll rush the next chapter! It's all in my head so it shouldn't take long at all.**

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play

Feedback: To **_FKitty, Hairball, Chibi-Kaz, Monica, KaindeAmedha419, Tiari Clovis, MagRowan, Elwyndra, and Milady Dragon , _**thank you for your reviews! Excellent excellent ideas! This story is almost done!

Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

**SISTER WOLF 13**

_Beneath the Papal Palace, the rush and roar of the Order's labs pulsed within its stone confines like the heart of an enormous beast. Though the outer faces of the glorious Palace and the dark, gritty Order were very different, they acted as one unstoppable entity. This had been the case for hundreds of years. The earth's evils had hurled themselves against the shield of the Order countless times, and it was evil who was always broken._

* * *

In the deepest recesses, hidden in shadows, the captive Fury, Sybl, sat starring into space. She made no acknowledgement of the catacombs about her or the sounds of the Order above her. Instead, her mind had taken her to the grey, open skies above a distant village flanked by yellow fields and black earth. There was life stirring in the village, the coming together of all the players in the little drama she had followed for so long were about to be united in this village. 

A kitten's smile curled her pale lips. She was looking forward to seeing the mighty Order break itself upon its own sword. No matter who won this day, justice and goodness would not prevail.

She shivered slightly and settled more firmly upon her stool—she had a front row seat to the show that was about to begin. She could hardly wait!

* * *

Robert Boyton Jr. was a loudly unhappy little boy of about six who lived in Keely with his equally unhappy mother, father, a new born sister, and a flock of discontented chickens. He was unhappy because his family was not moving nearly fast enough in their morning chores—when they finished, the family would go to the amazing circus that had sprung up out of nowhere overnight. He _would_ have been happy about its appearance except for the fact that he was certain he was going to die of anticipation before they ever _got_ there. 

His mother was unhappy because the baby was fussy and wouldn't eat. She'd been worrying over it for two days and hadn't slept in as long. She wished with all her heart she could just go back to bed and forget everything for a few blissful hours. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. As it was, she devoted all her attention and patience to cajoling the little scrap of humanity in her arms to take just a bit more milk.

His father was unhappy because the chickens weren't laying. With a new baby in the house, they needed the extra money the eggs brought more than ever. He had better things to do than to go to a mountebank's play, but he reasoned the change would be good for everyone. They'd go, he'd have a look about without the din of wailing babes and rowdy boys in his ears. No doubt he'd finish his look about and be back in plenty of time for the wife to put on the noon meal. That thought put him in mind to try giving the chickens warm bran to stimulate their egg laying.

When it didn't seem possible they could delay one more second, Robert Jr.'s family finally set out for the circus. He ran far ahead, to get there sooner, only to be called back by his father. This happened several times and as they merged with the other people going to the circus and he disappeared from view for moments at a time, his father got annoyed. The next time Robert Jr. returned from a foray, he got a clout on the ear that made his head ring.

When the little family at last arrived at the gate made up of straw bales, the father was in no mood to spend any more time with his noisy herd, the boy was in tears, and the mother was worn to a frazzle. They paid for their tickets and no sooner had they stepped through the barrier than the father left the family to their own devices.

The mother tried to soothe the boy's tears by taking his hand but he angrily yanked away from her grip. He might fear his father's fist, but his mother posed no threat. Angrily, he dodged away into the crowd, ignoring her cry to return.

Left alone with the quiet pale baby in her arms, the mother sank slowly down onto a straw bale. She promised herself she would look for the boy, she just needed a rest. Just for a moment.

Free and on his own, Robert Jr. forgot his family and his own anger as he ogled everything with gap-mouthed astonishment. There were people whose faces were painted and wore bright outrageous clothing at every turning. He whirled about like a top, trying to see them all and made himself dizzy. He spun out of the crowd only to stagger to a stop, eyes wide, as a man who must have stood twelve feet tall walked past him with enormous strides.

A rough shove from behind nearly sent him sprawling and he whirled about to see a group of six men in long black cloaks. Most were more concerned with the crowd about them, only one met his outraged stare with a thoughtful frown.

"You should not stand like a statue in everyone's way," the man said, his voice, though soft, carried easily to Robert Jr.'s ears. "You should return to your family. Now."

The other black-cloaked men moved away, one turning to call, "Brother Reynaldo!"

A passing grimace of irritation marred Reynaldo's pale smooth brow for an instant before disappearing.

"Mind what I say, boy," he murmured before turning away. His dark cloak swirled about his booted feet, affording the boy a glimpse of the white robe beneath.

He recognized the clothing of the brothers now and he felt as if cold fingers caressed his naked spine. He shuddered as he watched the brothers of the Inquisition disappear from sight within the unsuspecting crowd.

"Are you alright, boy? Did the brother frighten you?"

Robert Jr.'s world whirled about again as he spun to face his newest interrogator. He heaved a sigh of relief as he recognized the black robe of one of the brothers from the mission at the edge of the village.

"You seem a little out of breath," the brother said with a smile that displayed discolored teeth and caused his bright green eyes to narrow.

"I am a little, I suppose," Robert Jr. admitted sheepishly. "I don't know where to look first and I've lost sight of my family."

"Ah. Well, one thing at a time," the brother's smile widened as he extended a hand to clap Robert Jr. on the shoulder. "We'll let you rest a moment or two…some place quiet, with not so many people about. Perhaps we'll even share a snack. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I guess," Robert Jr. agreed guardedly, and then stumbled slightly as he was firmly steered through the thick of the crowd. He wasn't a tall boy and being surrounded by so many taller bodies made him feel as if he'd fallen down a well. He wheezed a bit as the pushing and shoving bodies about him seemed to carry away all the air with them.

And then he was free and in the open again, gasping with gratitude. Looking about, he saw the crowd was moving on, toward a large tent. Over the heads of the people it was easy to see the 12-foot tall man beckoning to them as if promising untold delights.

"Everyone is going that way," he pointed, twisting to look back at the green-eyed brother who still held his shoulder.

"Yes, they are. They're going to see a dear friend of mine," the brother murmured. For an instant, he forgot his charge and closed his eyes, lifting his face to the slight breeze and inhaling deeply. His red tongue slipped out of his mouth to wet his lips and Robert Jr. felt a tremor pass through the hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright? Don't you want to go see your friend?" the boy asked, squirming slightly beneath the brother's restraint. He was feeling better now, and the lure of the beckoning giant was almost more than he could bear. He gave an experimental tug, hoping to escape the brother's hand long enough to disappear in the crowd again. He was disappointed and a little shocked as his movement caused the brother's grasp to tighten spasmodically and to the point of pain. Now he squirmed in earnest.

"Brother! Your hand…."

"Ah," the brother sighed as his eyes lazily drifted open to fix upon Robert Jr. "Yes, it pinches a bit, doesn't it? But your head is clearer now, isn't it? Pain has a way of clarifying one's thoughts wonderfully."

"Bbrother…," Robert Jr. whimpered, ashamed as he felt the first hot tears slide over his dirty cheeks. "Please…I want…."

"I know, boy," the brother cooed as he shoved Robert Jr. past a ring of wagons toward a dilapidated tent that appeared to be deserted. "You want that snack I promised you, don't you? There's always time for a snack." The brother's footsteps quickened and his grip changed to lift the now struggling boy, pulling him tight into his body as one hand clamped down over his tearful pleas. A trail of saliva trickled over red lips that were stretched tight against his teeth. He paused at the entrance of the darkened tent just long enough to yank the tent flap down. It wasn't likely anyone would be around to interrupt them, but better safe than sorry. He wanted to devote the full measure of his attention to the treat he was about to enjoy.

* * *

This was her last chance. They had left the Other One behind with some of the older wolves. Far from their home and the security they had known for so long, she had at last succumbed to the need to give birth. She had waited too long as it was; to give birth, now, in an unfamiliar area, when the pack needed to be on the move and with enemies near had been unthinkable and went against generations of instinct. The entire pack had felt it and the feeling of anxiety and fear had them alternately snapping at one another and then licking the pain away. They should have lain low. They should have stayed with the Other One in the safest place they could find. They should never, never have left newborn pups to the care of the oldest members of the pack in these circumstances. 

But Alpha had moved on, determined, and in the end they had followed. One last time.

They'd arrived in the night, flowing through the tall golden weeds and moonlit bare patches to surround the small circus. From a safe distance, they'd watched the humans work and play and seen the one they had come to take. They waited and waited for the opportunity to accomplish their task quietly, but always there was someone near. He was never alone. When at last the camp settled, they moved silently into it, nervously skirting the big wagons and caged animals to converge on the tent housing the one they sought and his pack mate. They'd been so close to their goal, only to be stymied as, inexplicably, the black wolf emerged from his human. If they entered the tent now, there would be a fight in which the white and black wolves would surely combine forces. They couldn't take the chance, surrounded as they were by humans. They'd returned to the open fields.

The night had passed in anxious silence; the majority of the pack lay huddled together for warmth and reassurance. In the past few days they'd lost everything; now, as they pressed close to one another, drawing comfort from the pack, their golden eyes turned to the three wolves that remained outside—Alpha and the Beta pair. The Betas lay side by side, at attention, their gaze also fixed upon the single female who sat upright and apart, her eyes on the human camp. She seemed to ignore her pack, but the silent watchful presence behind her was never far from her thoughts.

Daylight came and with it more humans. Alpha had risen and trotted back and forth, small anxious whines emerging as she saw among the gathering crowds several dark cloaks that marked men of the clergy. She did not, however, believe these men were anything like her inoffensive Chester. There was no time to wait, the pack would not spend another night in the field. They would leave.

Eyes narrowed, Alpha took the first step toward the camp, her body dropping down to skim the cool damp earth.

Behind her, the pack rose to their feet, their questioning whines coming clearly to her ears. Her next step caused the whines to ratchet up followed by sharp yips of warning and cajoling. She ignored them all, speeding up as she approached the camp from the rear, heading for the one break in the solid parameter, a shoddy tent whose billowing sides promised easy ingress.

The wolves of the pack darted to and fro, their worried gazes flying from the departing Alpha to the Betas and back again.

This time, the Betas did not follow. They sat, side by side, upon the earth among the waving yellow weeds, and watched as Alpha disappeared from sight. Even then, they didn't move from their alert position. It was plain—they would not go with her, but they were willing to wait, to see what would become of her. One by one, the pack settled down behind them to wait as well.

She traveled fast, flying through the weeds, pausing only briefly as she entered the clearing housing the circus. Her gaze was intent upon the looming tent—when she was within ten feet of it she launched herself at the canvas, her claws ripping into it. The moldering canvas gave way easily and she fell through.

She was not prepared to find another wolf within its confines, nor the human child it held pinned to the ground, whose wailing cries of terror it muffled with one hand. There was something monstrous about the wolf, something diseased and inherently evil that made her snarl and rise to her full height. Its eyes flared golden at the sight of her and it left the child to rush at her.

She met it at the apex of its charge, slashing and biting as it bowled her over. She felt its teeth sink into her shoulder and snarled, whipping her head about to fasten her jaws on its almost hairless neck only to have her hold miss as it shoved back from her. In the next instant the claws on its powerful rear feet racked her belly. She screamed, like a frightened woman and an animal in mortal pain as the black claws gouged her open. Reflexively, she lunged at the monster, snapping, and felt her jaws close on its shoulder and neck, crunching down, grinding, tearing.

She heard it scream, felt it tear away. Black splotches floated before her eyes, she only realized it had left the tent when she felt the cool air of the bright day outside coming from the now open tent flap.

She settled back on her haunches then, panting with soft urgent whines as her arms crossed about her wounded belly. She was bleeding heavily; it was a foregone conclusion that she would die of her wounds. Still, she had something yet to do.

In the background she could hear the muffled sobs of the child, left behind by his would-be murderer. She sighed as she realized she would need to pin her hopes on that child. It was certainly too much to expect.

Alpha allowed gravity to tug her mortified body downward, until she rested upon the bloody canvas. Her thoughts began to fade and it was with a feeling of regret that she took the mental step backward that would allow her human to emerge. As the wolf sheered away and the golden glow ebbed from the human's eyes, Alpha died, leaving behind her human to finish her task.

* * *

On the other side of the clearing, hidden in the crowds and kept anonymous by his hat pulled low, Van Helsing searched for the enemies he knew would come. He was following the rest of the crowd toward the big tent when his forward movement abruptly stopped. His hazel eyes flared golden as they became blind to the straining crowd about him and turned inward, to the face of the female wolf that had haunted his dreams for weeks. 

_They were in a small, dimly lit clearing whose perimeter was shrouded in utter darkness. The Alpha wolf sat nose to nose with him, her soft moist breath warming his skin and lips. Her gaze and manner were peaceful, holding neither the playfulness nor dominance of his past dreams. He frowned, confused and uncertain. Slowly, she leaned in closer, angling her head so that she could rub her velvet cheek against his. He heard her sigh then, a long weary exhalation that must have emptied her lungs. For an instant, he held her weight upon his shoulder, his neck and face warmed by her soft fur as her breath ruffled his long hair._

_When she pulled back, he looked again into her eyes and was startled to see the familiar golden glow was gone. She turned from his puzzled gaze, dropped down to four paws, and walked away. Her gait was uneven and had such a feeling of resignation to it that he surprised himself by calling out to her. She didn't hesitate, didn't stop. He watched as the darkness surrounding them swallowed her._

He didn't realize he was running, pushing through the press of people, until he came to several seconds later.

* * *

Robert Jr. was afraid. More afraid than he had ever been in his short lifetime and more afraid than he would ever be again. He sat, huddled into the smallest possible bundle, clutching his knees to his chest. He was unable to tear his staring gaze away as the monster that had saved him from the brother collapsed and sheered away, leaving a pale woman lying in its place. His quiet sobs were abruptly given voice in a gasped hiccup, and he paled as the woman's head shifted, lifting her ghostly face to his view. A smear of dark crimson stained her hair and the cheek pressed to the dirty canvas; he shuddered at the macabre sight and pulled his legs even tighter into his body until his back crackled ominously. 

"It would be silly to say…don't be afraid," she murmured, a smile twitching at her pale lips. "You want to run?"

He couldn't answer, didn't know the right words to say that would keep him alive. Instead of answering, his body betrayed him with a swift jerking nod.

"You are safe. I cannot hurt you. You see that?"

He didn't answer, just watched her with round dark eyes.

She wanted to snarl and rage at the pain that had torn her wolf from her and would destroy her as well. She was a warrior, not a meek woman to die quietly trying to cajole a frightened child to do her work.

"I saved you. Now…I need your help," she said, as firmly as she could, and saw the boy's brows flicker down for an instant. Good. Better temper than tears. "Outside, a dark man in a hat…a leather coat…tell him about me. Then you can…run to your mother."

The boy sniffed moistly, his voice was the barest whisper. "I'm not a baby."

"Prove it," she spat. With that last surge of anger, she allowed her eyes to close. She had to hold onto her life now, with both hands, for as long as possible. She had no more strength to spend on coaxing the boy.

It was with a feeling of ineffable relief that she heard the abrupt sounds of upheaval and then pounding footsteps as the boy ran from the tent, bursting out into the sunshine with terrified speed.

"Gabriel," she murmured. "Gabriel."

* * *

Van Helsing pushed heedlessly through the crowds until he broke out into the open. Now free, his long legs ate up the distance as he ran full out toward the wagons. A straggling bunch of harried clowns emerged from a wagon at the last second and he cannoned through them, ignoring their outraged cries and shouts. As he cleared the wagon's end, he saw the tent he and Carl shared, and he saw the small dark-haired boy burst from it at top speed. The child saw him at the same time, apparently, because he checked, staggering to a skidding stop, his dark eyes darting about, apparently marking all possible means of escape. Then he jerked his thumb back at the tent. 

"She's in there!" he called, before taking off again in the opposite direction as fast as his legs could carry him. He would find his mother shortly after, the clout that she would give him would be so familiar and infinitely preferable to everything that had happened previously he would be grateful for it.

Thoughts of the child faded easily from Van Helsing's mind as he pushed into the tent and spotted Sarah on the ground. He went to her, sinking to the ground beside her, his gaze fixing first on the horrific wound in her belly and then her pale face.

She opened her eyes and as she met his gaze it struck him anew that the golden glow was truly gone. Without realizing it, he reached out to touch, then to stroke her hair and pale cheek.

"I'm sorry, I didn't make it soon enough," he murmured.

"You're here now." Her pale lips curved in a smile. "I'm grateful."

"For what? To die alone in a dirty tent?" he growled, then swallowed down his harsh anger.

"Not alone. You're here. I die with my pack and the one I love. It's a good death."

He shook his head, dark brows down though a corner of his mouth twitched. "Is there such a thing as a good death?"

Her eyes on his were sad, though her mouth smiled. "There is. You just have to look a little harder for it."

Van Helsing's gaze softened, glimmering in the dull light. "Someone else said that to me once."

"She is dead now?" Sarah guessed, her gaze dropping at his nod. "I am sorry. We might have been sisters, if we had met."

"Sarah…"

"Listen now," she interrupted her fingers curling into the bloody wound. The pain of it revived her from the sleepy release that beckoned and she welcomed its harsh return. "I knew we had to follow…had to find you again. The others…they don't realize. The Order has found us. They will keep coming. Unless you stop them. You must stop them."

"Sarah, I don't know how. Carl and I are both hunted, it's not likely they'll listen to us…."

"You must try," she insisted fiercely. "I have lived for over 100 years. I have fought…." She winced, and then groaned deeply. A black gout of blood flowed from between her clutching fingers, soaking the ground. Heedless, he slid down, lying down on the ground with her, one hand on her cheek, the other at her belly, meshing with her fingers.

She met his eyes again and smiled. "It's a good death," she insisted.

"I believe you." He assured her, smiling as well though it neither hid nor apologized for the wash of moisture in his eyes. When he closed his eyes and leaned down to kiss her, his tears joined hers on her pale cool cheeks.

* * *

From the plains surrounding the circus rose a long mournful howl, rising and falling in solemn dearth for the loss of a loved one. 

The crowds of performers and spectators stuttered to a stop, their eyes turning blindly toward the fields in wonder. Absolute silence fell improbably over the circus as the wolves' song of grief rose to the sky.

Carl, in costume and standing in the staging area behind a panel of wood at one end of the large tent, met Vermin's eyes in wonder.

"My God," he murmured, crossing himself. "The werewolves, they must all be out there. But why are they howling like that?"

"Better out there than in 'ere," Vermin murmured, his dark eyes rolling about as if expecting to spot one of the wolves emerging from the shadows.

"No, you don't understand," Carl shook his head and moved away from Vermin, toward the back of the small risers that ringed the tent.

"'ere! Where you goin'? Not out there!"

"I have to!"

"Bloody 'ell you do! You want ter get chomped by wolves and wotever else is out there?" the dwarf hissed as he grabbed at and caught hold of Carl's costume.

"You'd rather they come in here looking for me?" the friar returned, equally angry. "Van Helsing isn't here yet. That means he's out there dealing with whatever it is alone. Let go!"

Despite Vermin's best efforts, Carl pulled free, though his costume tore wide open, leaving Vermin clutching a ragged piece of fabric and Carl blushing furiously.

'ere! Wot's that you got on, under yer costume?" the dwarf barked as he followed Carl's determined progress along the walls of the tent.

"My clothes," Carl growled, already busy ripping off the rest of the flimsy costume. "I could hardly help Van Helsing dressed in enormous flapping shoes and a hoop about my middle, could I?"

"Yer a bloody friar!" the dwarf returned in a subdued roar slapping at Carl's busy hands and being slapped at in return. "Yer could be in a bloody suit of bloody _**armor**_ and yer couldn't be no good to 'im!"

"Stop swearing! Or by God, I'll sentence you to a week in hell for it!"

Vermin stopped dead in his tracks, huffing and puffing soundlessly through pursed lips. "Yer…yer couldn't do that. Yer just a friar. Friars aren't allowed ter do that…are they?"

"Try me!" Carl tossed back over his shoulder as he slipped around the last of the risers and ducked out of the tent's open door.

Outside in the sunshine, Carl blinked at the unexpected brilliance and shaded his eyes with one hand as he peered about with watery eyes.

"Where are you? Van Helsing…wherewherewhere?" he chanted, jiggling up and down on his toes. The ridiculous straw wig he still wore pricked at his wrist and he tore it off his head, tossing it aside thoughtlessly. "I'm not a field man," he huffed furiously as sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging them. Forgetting his makeup, he fisted his sleeve, and in swiping it over his face smeared or removed most of his careful disguise. When he saw the broad streaks of paint on his sleeve he rolled his eyes and threw his arms up to heaven. "This is definitely _not_ in my job description!" he shouted at the broad arc of blue sky. With no celestial answer forthcoming and no idea where to go, he set off at random, running hard.

The wolves' song was till soaring through the air, he was more than prepared to come upon them at any second.

Instead, he found something infinitely worse.

tbc


	14. Chapter 14

**Note: This chapter, is perforce, a little…er…gory. Sorry about that!**

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play

Feedback: To **_Monica, Chibi-Kaz, Elwyndra, MagRowan, KaindeAmedha419, Tiari Clovis, FKitty, and Milady Dragon , _**thank you so much for your reviews! Reading them kept this chapter going! I hope you like it!

Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

* * *

**SISTER WOLF 14**

Within the stone fist of the Order's catacombs, the captive Fury, Sybl, unknowingly leaned forward upon her wooden stool as her wide-open, black eyes stared fixedly into empty space. Her lips pulled back from the white tips of her teeth and a thin, clear line of saliva trickled over her bottom lip to drip from her chin unheeded. The cold grey stone of the Catacombs and sounds of its inmates had ceased to exist. In their place she saw sunlight, a trampled field, and the murder of innocence.

* * *

After having dreaded their meeting within the darkness of his nightmares for so long, to come face-to-face with Nikko's wolf beneath the golden warm rays of the sun was a blasphemy. 

Carl's headlong run through the circus in search of Van Helsing abruptly became a staggering series of hops and skids as he desperately attempted to avoid colliding with it. By a series of backbreaking twists and turns, he managed it, but only because the werewolf was not expecting him. It appeared to be disoriented as it staggered among the quiet wagons, frequently bumping into them only to snarl and bite at the obstruction before stumbling on. A horrific wound in its throat and the front of its left shoulder bared white bone amidst a welter of blood and ripped tissue. With each collision against a solid object, its snarls were followed by an ongoing whimpering whine that set the teeth on edge and raised the hair on Carl's neck and arms.

The friar's abrupt appearance caused the wolf's whimpers to change to a cry of fright. It fell back against the nearest wagon, crouching as italternately growledwarning then whimpered in fear.

Carl, too, fell back against a wagon and cursed the trap its unyielding splintered surface represented as he stared, horrified, at the wolf. He recognized it easily from his nightmare and swallowed hard against the immediate feeling of panicked revulsion. For better or worse, he had seen many werewolves during his trip to Transylvania and during this mission, but none of them had looked like Nikko.

Nikko's wolf looked as though it remained caught in the act of changing. Its dark skin was only thinly covered with black hair, instead of fur. The shoulders were thick with muscle but were warped and twisted so that the massive muscle of the back appearing more as a hump. Its thick neck was topped with a tiny flat head with the eyes situated at the sides. There was a thick, cloying feeling of sickness about it that made Carl's skin crawl. Like the man that spawned it, the creature before him was an abomination and completely evil.

As the seconds passed, its initial whimpers died away. The small red eyes narrowed as it leaned forward and drew in a great breath of air through its wet black nose. Carl shuddered and pressed back hard against the wagon side. He was positioned between the two large wheels—to slide away from the wagon, he would need to take a step toward the creature in order to clear the wheel. That was a step he could not force himself to take.

"**_Ehhh kehkehkkeh…. Ehhh, kehkehkeh_**!"

The creature was making a new noise, a strange huffing, lilting sound. It took several seconds for Carl to recognize the sound for what it was—laughter. He couldn't stop his own sound of panic from boiling up in his throat as the creature slowly rose and took a mincing step toward him. It was disturbingly plain that Nikko's original fear had changed with the lightening rapidity todelight.

Without conscious thought, Carl _moved_, darting about the wheel and away from the wagon—only to fall back as the creature moved faster, blocking his way with wide-spread arms. As he backed away from it, it waggled a long, clawed finger at him with an appallingly human-like disapproval.

"Nn..Nikko," Carl stuttered, then fell silent as he was forced to swallow as his mouth dried to cotton whenthe creature's stuttering laughter came again.

"Yy..you're not a werewolf...," Carl stated with horrified fascination as he continued to back away, one step at a time, as the creature advanced. "Can you understand me? Something…went wrong, you weren't able to change completely?"

The creature's advance halted, it's stooped predatory posture relaxing and becoming more upright as it seemed to consider Carl's question. Then the red eyes returned to the friar. Holding Carl's gaze, the creature smoothed its long fingered hands down over its body, petting itself with languid easy pleasure. An air of malicious thoughtfulness entered the red gaze as its self-petting grew more suggestive. In the narrow confines between the wagons, alone with it and surrounded by the ongoing mournful howls of the wolves in the fields beyond, Carl shuddered at the macabre sight with a terrified revulsion. His last meeting with the mercenary left him in no doubt of what the creature was suggesting.

Unable to speak past the solid wedge of disgust that robbed him of breath and voice, Carl took another step back, shaking his head with quick sharp jerks.

The red eyes flared as if lit with internal crimson flames as the creature raised one hand between them and allowed its claws to fully emerge. The threat was obvious.

Carl bit his cheek hard enough to taste blood as his gaze dropped from the glittering red eyes to the gaping wound in the creature's neck and shoulder. As horrifying as the creature was, it wasn't the devil. It could be fought—it had already been in a fight for its life, evidently. Had it met Van Helsing? Was the hunter even now lying somewhere injured?

With that question, deep within Carl's soul, something expanded, questing for a response from the black wolf. He didn't have to look inward to check—his own wolf had awakened. Its response to finding Nikko was instinctive and viciously sudden.

In the brief instant that light turns to dark, at the razor's edge where both exist, a decision must be made. Most certainly, if Carl himself were to face the creature before him, he would be killed, or worse. His only alternative was hardly better—to choose to loose the wolf inside himself, to allow it to kill the creature and the man that spawned it. Once, Carl would have seen the creature as another figure of evil, to be killed per the Order's mandate. In his short time sharing his life with another such monster, his understanding had grown dim and cloudy, and full of questions about what was right and what was wrong. For the first time, he clearly understood the burden Van Helsing bore every day.

Looking at the creature advancing on him, reading its intent, the friar made a decision and in so doing, felt a part of himself wither and die.

Carl closed his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest, and fell back into the darkness as the white wolf came roaring out, lunging at the creature.

Shock clubbed the creature into frozen rigor, its red eyes grew round and huge, its misshapen jaw dropping open in surprise. The white wolf took visceral pleasure in the act of raking its claws in a glittering arc that neatly sliced open the creature's belly from one side to the other in parallel furrows. Another strike laid the creature's cheek open and dislocated its jaw.

With pain came release from inactivity--the creature whirled, scrabbling away from its attacker on all fours. They were in a rough corridor, with two openings—the tent, which led out to the werewolves waiting in the fields beyond, and, in the opposite direction, to the open circus rings and the crowds of people. The fields meant certain death--but no wolf in its right mind would chose the alternative.

The creature hesitated for less than an instant before choosing to canon out into the milling crowds. Lost in the red haze of blood rage,the white wolf pursued it. All around them, the villagers that had come for the circus now fell back, screaming and trampling one another to escape as the two monsters fought one another.

The press of humanity pinned the creature as firmly as the wagons had. All around were people screaming, striking at it, confusing it. It whirled and lunged but couldn't find an opening. Behind it, the white wolf's snarled challenge came to it with surrealistic clarity.

Unable to escape, the creature turned to face the white wolf. Severely wounded and with a broken jaw, the creature clawed at the white wolf, attempting to catch its throat or vulnerable belly. The thick white pelt thwarted its efforts; but, in the instant that the creature opened itself, the white wolf lunged forward, bearing them both to the ground.

On its back, the creature brought all four paws into motion, its dark hands smashing its attacker's head while its back claws raked the white sides repeatedly. For the first time, the white wolf howled in pain and twisted away, staggering as it shook its head. The creature rose to its feet, rearing up, one huge paw rising to club the other wolf unconscious.

In that instant, the white wolf whirled and lunged upwards, between the creature's upraised arms; the serated white jaws closed with a loud vicious **_SNAP_** on the creature's neck. With its entire weight dangling from the creature's throat, the white wolf gave a convulsive heave, snapping its head from one side to the other, ripping the creature's throat and opening the great veins. Hot thick blood poured over its muzzle andthe white wolf released the creature, dropping away, out of its staggering path.

The flame behind the red eyes was fading; it snapped blindly at the people about it but couldn't see well enough to catch any of the bodies that criss-crossed in front of it.

The white wolf circled, staggering on four feet, ignoring the horrified crowd as it watched the death agonies of the creature. Deep within its mind, almost too faint to be sensed, a feeling of shocked horror was building that annoyed the wolf. Its constant snarling growls were directed as much inward as out. It was tired, it hurt, and the presence of the crowd surrounding it was like an electric charge, causing its skin to prickle and its thick white fur to rise in spikes. The wolf was sick of humanity and the stench of it.

Thedrunken perambulations of the creature came to an abrupt end as it suddenly staggered and then collapsed, falling first from its feet to sit onthe ground heavily so that puffs of dirt and dust rose in the air. With the next shuddering breath, it fell back with an audible thud to lay outstretched upon the ground. From its gaping mouth, theblack tongue dropped to the sideto lie upon the dirt. The red glow within the dark eyes was almost gone,yet when the white wolf approached closer, the dark muzzle rippled with a snarl. It was the creature's last act of defiance. Then, thered glow faded completely from its eyes and the bulky misshapen form sloughed away, leaving Nikko behind, lying naked and bloody upon the field.

The mercenary's green eyes rose to the white wolf. He grimaced inhatred as he pursed his lips and spat at its clawed feet.

The white wolf rose upright, towering over the dying man, its muscular arm rising, claws extended, to deliver the final blow.

The crowd screamed, several stooped to seize up rocks and threw them at the white wolf. It whirled as the missiles thudded into its back and injured sides. The blue eyes darkened and flared golden as it snarled at the crowd, then at the growing presence that was filling its mind, demanding it not kill, demanding to be set free. All around it, more people were picking up rocks, throwing them at the wolf as they shouted their fear and hatred at it. The wolf was surrounded; its eyes narrowed as it turned to face the section of the crowd closest to it, and crouched.

Simultaneously, it was struck viciously by unexpected blows—one from within and several from without. The human within its mind forced his way out, tearing the wolf's control apart with agonizing strength. At the same time, a dozen gleaming darts thudded into the white pelt, sinking deeply into flesh and muscle.

The white wolf howled—howled with pain, howled for its missing pack mate.

* * *

Within the dark tent, kneeling beside Sarah's fallen body, Van Helsing's head abruptly snapped up, his hazel eyes wide and staring. Within the huge dark pupils, a golden light kindled like the reflection from a single candle. It grew quickly, spreading outward, licking at the edges of the hunter's pupils as the wolf moved forward. 

"No!"

Van Helsing lunged to his feet, turning to the tent's open flap as he simultaneously thrust the wolf back. Its howl of anger made him wince while its presence slashed at his mind, attempting to dominate him, to force him aside. The white wolf might accept the hunter as a part of the pack, but the black wolf saw him only as an impediment. Ruthlessly, he forced it, snarling, to the back of his mind. Then he left the tent at a dead run. He didn't need to ask where Carl was, where the white wolf was. He could sense them, could feel their pain as if it were his own.

He emerged from the dark tent, blinking rapidly at the bright sunshine that stabbed at his eyes, blinding him. He raised his hand to block it out, only then noticing the dark silent men waiting at the tent's entrance. He didn't have time to raise a hand in his defense before they seized him, catching hold of his limbs, waist, neck, and hair. He fought them then, as they forced him down, rolling on the ground with them as he kicked and punched at whatever he could reach. At one point he was actually winning, and then a dark, foul-smelling bag was forced over his head. Its smothering folds held a heavy scent that made his head reel and closed his airways. He couldn't fight both the men and suffocation. Cold metal was clamped bruisingly tight about his wrists and ankles before the bag was removed, leaving him squinting blindly up into the blazing afternoon sun. Involuntary tears further blurred his vision, and he blinked angrily at them, trying to clear his eyes, to see his attackers.

A gloved hand seized his chin, forcing his face up, turning it from side to side.

"Is this him?"

He snarled at the flesh-colored blur of faces hanging over him, his white teeth a flash of brilliance in his dirt-smeared face. "You attack a man and don't know even who your victim is?"

They didn't answer him. For an interminable span, a breathless silence hung over them and for the first time, Van Helsing realized the howling of the werewolves had ceased. Their silence worried him more than their previous obvious presence. He didn't know where they were now, or what their next action might be.

A scuffing footfall caught his attention. Its approach kicked up a small cloud of dust that made him cough and stung his eyes. The blur of shapes about him fell back slightly, allowing a new shape to squat down beside him. For an instant, the still silence returned as the newcomer regarded him.

An unexpected touch of cool fingers against his cheek, swiping away a tear, made him start and turn his face away. The grip on his chin wasn't allowing that, however, and he growled as his face was forced back to the front.

The affirmative grunt from the owner of the fingers had a pleased note to it that made his skin prickle as old memories were stirred. His eyes narrowed into hard glittering slits as he squinted upward at what he dreaded was an old acquaintance.

"Reynaldo." The name emerged from his lips as a sigh and a curse. Above him, the dark shape stirred and the fingers returned, patting his cheek insultingly.

"There," the Inquisitor's voice was soft with satisfaction. "You see, we aren't strangers. I'm pleased you remember your stay with us after four years. Sadly, I can't say I'm pleased that you will be returning to us under such terrible conditions. Still, we will do what we can."

Van Helsing's eyes narrowed as his mouth thinned with impatience. He remembered now, Reynaldo had alwaysenjoyed hearing his own voice mouthing platitudes that fooled no one.

TheInquisitor nodded, as though pleased with his captive'slistening silence. "Now, we know, of course, that you are not alone. You will need to tell us--where is the friar, Carl?"

Van Helsing's eyes dropped as his face became an unresponsive mask.

"Sullen so soon?" Reynaldo chided, his tongue making sharp staccato clicks against his teeth. "_Tsk tsk_. Everything would be so much easier on you if you cooperated."

Van Helsing'sreply was spat out in a rough painful bark. "Go to hell."

The monk shrugged as he rose to his feet. Absently he swiped at a swath of dust that defaced the pristine whiteness of his robe as he spoke with apparent regret. "Very well, Gabriel. We will do it your way, though I fear your stubbornness will send you to hell long before me."

* * *

Sensation and awareness came back in a dizzying whirl of kaleidoscopic color and noise. Carl instinctively shied away from it, curling in on himself. His retreat was almost immediately thwarted however, by a hard bruising pressure about his biceps. His arms were wrenched back, despite his cry of pain, and an instant later he felt the hard press of cold metal clamped about his wrists. 

He was surprised as he became aware of the fact that his eyes were still closed—he immediately forced them open and just as quickly regretted doing so.

The circus grounds were ablaze with harsh sunlight that all too clearly allowed him to pick out the thronging crowds surrounding him. Upon their faces was a mixture of dread and fascination—more than one pair of eyes hastily averted from his as their owner sketched the sign of the cross between them. The sign against evil. Against…him?

Blinking, Carl's blue eyes dropped down and an immediate hard flush of color flooded his face and chest as he realized he was half lying, half sitting in an open field, surrounded by people, and absolutely stark naked.

"Oh my God," Carl moaned, and without thinking, attempted to curl up, to hide himself as best he could. Immediately his arms were wrenched backwards again, forcing his back to arch as he cried out in surprised pain.

"Leave him alone," a gruff voice snapped, and the agonizing pressure at his elbows suddenly disappeared. In fact, it disappeared so quickly, the friar found himself falling helplessly forward, toward a face full of dirt and a certain broken nose. Unable to stop himself, he squeezed his eyes shut.

Before he could strike, a pair of large hard hands caught his shoulders and pulled him back upright. His lips fluttered out in a hard sigh of gratitude as he blinked against a trickle of stinging sweat that trailed down his forehead and through his eyebrow. Still blinking, he turned cautious eyes upward as he turned his head to look back at the owner of the hands.

Markus met Carl's gaze with grim reserve. No warmth or familiarity lightened his eyes as he held the friar's gaze with an air of stern warning.

"Where is Van Helsing?"

"I…I don't know…," Carl stammered. "H..he wasn't….wasn't with me…."

Abruptly, Carl's arms were wrenched back again, causing his back and shoulders to flare with agony. "Don't lie to me, Carl," Markus growled. "I'll treat you with respect as long as you don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying!" Carl cried. His blue eyes were wide in stunned shock, staring up into the unclouded blue sky above. His breath was a harsh panting staccato that segued to a whimpering groan when the pressure on his joints was abruptly released. For a moment, black dots danced before his eyes and his consciousness flirted with the alluring prospect of a blackout. Then a large, calloused hand slapped him smartly on the cheek, stunning him into wakefulness.

More hands were lifting him, so that he hung from them. He was dimly aware that, mercifully, a blanket had been produced to cover his nakedness. The crowd was falling back as he was carried through it like a sack of potatoes. _Evil_ potatoes, judging by the number of hastily-sketched crosses made.

Behind him, Markus' voice was a barking sound, giving orders for the search of Van Helsing.

Carl was shocked to see what appeared to be half the crowd peeling off to search for the hunter. Markus, at his side now, grunted as his eyes on the friar narrowed.

"You're surprised? You didn't think we'd suspect the circus? I can't believe Van Helsing would be so careless."

"But why?" Carl asked, a note of uncontrollable hurt in his voice. "Why are you after us? Who sent you? Why would they send you?"

Markus' grey stubbled jaw tightened, causing tendons to jump along his cheeks as he caught and pushed at Carl's shoulder, urging those men carrying him to move faster. "You know who. As to why…everyone in this village knows why. Everyone saw you…saw it. You killed a man in front of a hundred witnesses."

"I…I didn't kill anyone!" Carl flared, horrified.

"Tell that to him," Markus said grimly, pointing to the huddled form of a naked man upon the ground. Carl's jaw fell open as he looked at the still face of the man who had haunted his dreams for so long. The green eyes had lost their vividness. They were dull and dead, like cold marble. Nikko was gone. Obviously dead, obviously at the claws of his wolf. A small dark voice within his mind whispered with fascination, was Nikko dead because he was evil? Or because he'd dared to threaten Carl?

The friar shook his head, hard. When he spoke, his voice sounded thin and guilty, even to his ears. "But...you saw it…_they_ must have seen it. The creature. I had no choice. It would have killed me…killed them. I had to fight it. It's what the Order…."

A hand clapped over Carl's mouth with bruising force.

"Shut yer mouth." Carl's eyes rolled over to the grim brunette who held one of his arms and who now held his mouth shut.

"You're in enough trouble, Carl," Markus advised the friar with a frown. "Don't make it worse."

Unable to speak, barely able to move, Carl nodded as vigorously as his captor would allow. Grudgingly, the muzzling hand slid away, and Carl gasped for breath, licked his sore lips and winced at the lingering taste of sour sweat.

The sound of running feet caught everyone's attention as another hunter slid up to them.

"Pearson?" Markus' voice held an unmistakable note of impatience. "You found Van Helsing?"

The young hunter flushed at the implied censure, but nodded. "I did. But someone else found him before us."

"Someone else?" Markus growled. "What are you talking about? I don't have the patience for riddles!"

"The Inquisition!" Pearson snapped, stung into anger. "Over there…." He turned to gesture irritably only to come up short as everyone saw the crowd of black and white robed clerics emerge from behind a knot of wagons. In their midst, securely manacled with silver, Van Helsing was forced to walk with the short jerking steps the small amount of chain between his leg cuffs allowed. The look upon his face was thunderous but inexplicably, his anger lightened as he caught sight of Markus and his captive.

Van Helsing said nothing to express his relief at finding Carl safe and, though captured, at least in the hands of Markus rather than the Inquisition. Markus would see to it that Carl was taken to Jinette in one piece. Though it sounded odd, at the moment, Carl could not be in safer hands.

Reynaldo led his small group toward the knot of glowering hunters, a small smile playing about his own mouth. When they closed the distance to a few feet, he gestured his band to stop. Crossing his arms, he gestured with a jerk of his chin at Carl.

"It appears we are at cross purposes," he said grimly.

"Aye," Markus grunted, his own gaze moving from Reynaldo to Van Helsing and back again. "We've come for these men with the sanction of his Holiness….."

"As have we," Reynaldo interrupted. "Our authority is known far and wide. Your's…less so. Surely that gives us the upper hand."

"You know our authority," Markus muttered, his eyes darting about the large, inconvenient crowd. "And you know it supersedes the Inquisition's in matters such as these. Will you surrender your prisoner?"

"Hardly," the Inquisitor sniffed. "Four years ago, his Holiness saw fit to place this man in our care. I see no reason to suppose that his attitudes have changed. And, as Friar Carl is a cleric, I would think that makes our claim to him much better than yours."

Markus ground his teeth together, his grey brows drawn down low over his darkened eyes like thunderclouds. He was tempted just to force the issue—he had more men than Reynaldo. He'd brave the consequences to take the other hunter from God's Dogs with a clear conscience. The problem, again, was the crowd. And the damned Inquisitor knew it.

As he stared at Reynaldo, mulling the array of bad choices before him, he noted a faint flicker within the Inquisitor's eyes. Barely perceivable, given the distance between them, but there. Reynaldo's gaze kept flickering to the friar. There was an eagerness about it. An impatience that belied the man's easy manner. Was there something between the two men? Some history? Why didn't he know about it? Reynaldo said there was history between himself and Van Helsing, but his reaction to Carl was more marked. Why?

Markus' eyes darted to Van Helsing, and rested there. The other hunter's hazel eyes met his, and held. And as Markus made up his mind, he saw Van Helsing's dawning comprehension. Abruptly, Van Helsing threw himself forward, against the backs of the Inquisitors as he shouted at Markus.

"Don't! Take him to Jinette! _Markus_!"

The hunter's struggles were violently ended with the impact of an unexpected truncheon to the side of his head. He sagged in the arms that held him, head lolling.

"I didn't know God's Dogs carried the weapons of cut throats," Markus sneered.

Reynaldo shrugged, the ever-present smilecurling upon his lips. "We do what we must, in the service of God," he murmured piously.

"Hmph. Fine. It's none of my business. I'll make you a trade—our prisoner for yours."

Behind him, Markus heard Carl's startled and horrified gurgle of surprise that was quickly stifled. He didn't want to do this. He knew Carl, respected him. But Van Helsing was a hunter. It was understood—hunters dealt with their own."

Reynaldo made a pretence of considering the offer, but judging by the eager light in his eyes, the trade was an unlooked for but foregone conclusion.

"Fine," the Inquisitor agreed with ashrug. "To each his own. That seems fitting."

They made the trade, approaching one another with the ginger watchfulness of circling dogs. Carl made only one attempt to avoid the hands that reached for him—it was clear he did it only to catch a glimpse of Van Helsing's face. His concern was palpable, and unwelcome by both parties. Reynaldo hauled him violently back, causing Carl to stumble and almost fall. Markus noted that none of the other Inquisitors touched the friar, though their help would have been useful. By his hand alone, Reynaldo steadied and led Carl away. Markus watched them, until they disappeared into the crowd.

He turned, then, to Van Helsing who hung from the grip of his men. It felt as if it had been a long time since he had last laid eyes on the hunter. Carefully, he caught Van Helsing's chin and pulled his head up. He looked at the slack face, and felt a superstitious shiver course down his back as deep within the darkness of his mind, something stirred. Something silent and watchful.

"Let's get out of here," he grunted, releasing Van Helsing to wipe his hand upon his pants leg. "We have what we came for."

* * *

Within the stone fist of the Order's catacombs, the captive Fury, Sybl, leaned back upon her wooden stool as her wide-open, black eyes gradually resuming focus. It had been everything she could have hoped for. So thrilling, with such unexpected twists. Now, she would compose herself to prepare for her daily visitor. She had a lot to share with him today. She suspected it would be very educational to watch his grey eyes, his thin pale lips, as she spoke. Unawares, he would give away little things, things that she could treasure and enjoy. One day, she would be free. One day, she would enjoy more than the little things he allowed her to see. Until then…. 

"Little bird, little red bird…fly to me," she murmured. And smiled as she heard the sound of a familiarapproaching step.

* * *

To be continued in **_The Pack is Everything_**


End file.
